There was another silence, then he said, his voice quite different now, almost gentle, concerned, ‘So how do you feel?’
‘Terrible. Thank you.’
‘I don’t know a lot about pregnancy,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re being sick in the mornings?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten. ‘All day long.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oliver, I – ’
‘Yes?’
‘I just don’t know what to say. To make you feel better. About me, I mean.’
‘Oh – don’t worry about me,’ he said.
‘But I do. I have. I can only tell you that this happened before – before we started going out. I didn’t know. I didn’t know for ages. I really want you to believe that.’
‘All right,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘I do believe you.’
‘And – ’
‘But why didn’t you tell me? Explain. It was so awful, the way you just – froze me out.’
‘I’m sorry. I suppose it was – well, I felt you’d think worse of me if I explained. And I wanted so badly for you to think well of me.’
‘Well, that just shows,’ he said, and he almost smiled now, ‘how little you know me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it does. Well, we didn’t have much time together really. Did we? I so wish we’d had more. It was so – ’ Her voice shook for a moment, ‘so lovely.’
‘So – what do you think – well, what are you – ’ He stopped.
‘What am I going to do? I don’t know, Oliver, I really don’t. I can’t decide. It’s very difficult.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and was silent.
She could see him taking in the implications: that this was not something to be dealt with quickly, easily, that she might want to keep the baby, that it superseded any other relationship now; could see that it hurt. There was nothing she could do about that.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d better be going.’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t want him to leave; however difficult the circumstances were, it was so lovely to be with him again, talking to him, looking at him. But clearly he had to.
‘I’ll speak to Barnaby in the morning, then,’ she said, ‘first thing. I’m so sorry again. It must have seemed so very – ’
‘That’s OK. Don’t worry about it.’
He stood up, pushed his chair back; Kirsten stood up too. She had forgotten her robe had no tie; it was very light cotton, and as she moved towards the door, it swung open. And Oliver, formally mannered, considerate, reticent as he was, stood there, staring at her, at her naked body, unable to move. He had never seen her body before, she realised; it seemed very strange that it should be under these circumstances that it had happened, these sad, sorry, cruel circumstances. She wanted to pull the robe back round her, but she couldn’t; she stood there, quite still, silent, watching him, and it was a totally emotive moment, erotic even: and after a long time, he sighed a great heavy sigh and looked at her, and then moved slowly towards her and kissed her, very gently, on the mouth.
‘The trouble is,’ he said simply, drawing back, ‘and there’s nothing either of us can do about it, nothing at all, but the trouble is, I love you. Goodbye Kirsten.’
Francesca had gone to her mother’s flat. She could hardly arrive at Liam’s house at eleven o’clock at night, and she had to go somewhere. She phoned from the car: Rachel’s husky voice informed her on the answering machine that she was not there at the moment, but to leave a message.
Still in Devon presumably, thought Francesca, and, thanking God her mother had insisted she always had a key to the flat, drove to Battersea.
She smiled suddenly, feeling better as she closed the door behind her; the place was so redolent of her mother, it made her feel as if she had walked into her arms. Stylish, slightly excessive, charmingly cluttered, filled with dried and fresh flowers, the kitchen smelling of herbs and good coffee, the bathroom of Rachel’s absurdly expensive perfumes and body lotions that she could not really afford, piles of glossy magazines in all the rooms, the walls covered in pictures, albeit many of them cheap watercolours, every conceivable surface covered with framed photographs of her family: it was Rachel, that flat, in all her warmth and extravagant vitality.
Francesca went into the kitchen, made herself a large mug of the good coffee and sat down in the drawing room. She felt very odd, as if she were some visitor, some stranger who had never been there before. She leafed through some magazines, plumped up some cushions, studied the photographs on the low table beside her. They were a poignant collection; it made her feel normal again, made her feel worse. One of her and Bard on their wedding day, on the steps at Caxton Hall, she in white silk, draped skilfully over her burgeoning bump that was Jack; one in the nursing home, not of her, but of Bard holding the baby; Rachel at Stylings holding an armful of Easter eggs; Rachel with Kitty at the christening – God, thought Francesca, that was when it all began, it seemed a lifetime ago; and, a new addition, a picture of Mary, aged about ten, wearing a pink cardigan and a pink ribbon in her hair, beaming radiantly with a basket of eggs, outside the convent. Francesca sat and looked at her for a long time, that sister of hers, thinking about her, thinking of the burden of keeping her a secret, of the courage and strength of spirit that had enabled Rachel to do so, and wondered at it. She lacked that spirit of her mother’s, she knew, lacked the determined sense of joy, the ability to be positive, forward looking. She supposed, she feared, she was more like her father, the father she could scarcely remember, the man her mother had seen so clearly, in spite of her loyalty; the man who had promised her the moon and delivered only a falling star.
For a long time Francesca sat there, staring at those pictures, thinking of her mother, and wondering what she would tell her to do; and finally she fell asleep, in the chair, to wake at dawn cold, aching, and with a sense of desolation greater than she could ever remember.
And at nine, thinking it must surely be safe by then, she rang Liam and asked him to come and see her.
At almost exactly the same time, Gray Townsend arrived at Cyril le Marquand House in Jersey. The perky girl looked at him and grinned.
‘Not you again! This isn’t a casino, you know.’
‘It is to me,’ said Gray.
It was the third word he tried: Drab, hardly even an anagram, but Bard, spelt backwards. A perfectly anonymous, dispiriting, uncharismatic little word. Drab. Perfect. Exactly what you’d hide some complex, tax-evading wing of a great glittering company behind. And instead of the tantalising ‘O’ dancing about under the cursor when he tapped it in, yes, there it was: Drab Financial Services Ltd. He wrote down the number, filled in the form, pulled out yet more of the toy-town one-pound notes and advanced on the perky girl.
‘Can I have a look at this one?’ he said.
Drab Financial Services had been formed ten years earlier, and had, as its registered address, Robinson and Wetherill, on Hill Street, St Helier – handy for Shelley, he thought, and wrote down the names of the two directors: Peter Marsh and Henry Williams. He had found the haystack, he had even found which section of it the needle was in; all he had to do now was actually pull it out. Get someone, anyone, in those offices to admit they knew Bard Channing, and then he would be ninety nine per cent certain. Q.E.D.
He could see the headlines now.
Perversely, Kirsten felt much better the next day. She had no idea why; she could only assume that at least some of the burden had been lifted from her. Oliver knew what had happened; she had seen him, talked to him, and he had told her he loved her. That alone gave her courage: she had no illusions that he was suddenly going to ask her to marry him, tell her he would bring up the baby and they would all live happily ever after; she simply felt that if someone as nice, as intrinsically good, as Oliver could love her, then she could not be all bad. Some small sense of self-worth had been restored to her, and with it, a lessening, however slight, of her physical misery, enabling her to think more clearly.
/> And the first thing she thought was that she must go to Francesca and confess.
‘I don’t know, Liam,’ Francesca kept saying. ‘I don’t know who told him. In the first place. But somebody did. And then I did, I had to, there was no point my denying it, no point at all.’
‘So he knows we’re having an affair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah,’ he said, and he looked at her and she saw the most extraordinary expression in his eyes, just for a moment; extraordinary and inappropriate: a look of triumph, of complacency – and then it was gone.
‘Well,’ he said finally, and the voice was odd too, slightly shaky, not its lovely musical self, ‘well, I wonder where that leaves us.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I really don’t.’
She was hoping for something then, she knew not what; she sat quiet, still, just looking at him, studying him.
‘How did he take it?’ he said. It seemed an odd question.
‘Oh – you know. He was terribly angry, desperately hurt, all the things you’d expect. I felt terrible.’
‘Oh no,’ he said abruptly, ‘no need for that. He should feel those things.’
It was ugly, that; she didn’t like it. ‘Liam, don’t. Please don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘You sound so – so vengeful.’
‘I am vengeful,’ he said simply, his face, his voice, both oddly expressionless; and then, clearly seeing her distress, became almost visibly the old Liam, the tender, caring one she knew.
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry. It must have been so terrible for you. I wish I could have been with you, helped you sooner. Come here, let me hold you.’
She moved over to him, and started to cry, tears of shock and strain as well as grief, and, ‘Darling,’ he said, as he took her in his arms, started kissing her hair, her eyelids, gently, sweetly, ‘darling, it’s not so bad. You’ve got me, it’s all right, you’re safe now – ’
And: ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘you can’t understand, you couldn’t, it was dreadful, so dreadful to see him so angry, and so hurt, to know I’d done that to him, and I’m not safe, not safe at all, it’s truly, truly terrible, Liam, you don’t know what he’s asked me to – ’
‘No,’ he said, kissing her again, ‘no I don’t, asked you to what?’
‘Oh – nothing. I can’t tell you. I mustn’t. It wouldn’t be right, it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘What?’ he said, clearly puzzled by her anguish. ‘What has he asked you – ’
Francesca pulled away from him, went over to the window. She looked out at Battersea Park, through the plane trees, looked at them all, ordinary, lucky, happy people, joggers, cyclists, rollerbladers, men with briefcases, women with pushchairs, girls arm in arm, giggling, people with no dreadful choice to make, no awful dilemma presented to them, just a procession of days, one after the other, some good, some not so good, jobs to do, mortgages to pay, schools to go to, and her envy of them was so intense she could hardly bear it. She looked to her left, up to the elaborate ironwork of Albert Bridge, and beneath it the river, shining in the morning sun, boats moving up it, all so ordinary, all so safe.
‘Oh God!’ she said. ‘God, I want to run away. Just run away somewhere where no-one can find me.’
‘Then I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘But why, Francesca, why do you want to run away, I don’t understand – ’
‘You couldn’t,’ she cried, ‘you couldn’t, nobody could, oh God, oh Christ, I can’t stand it, any of it, I can’t stand it any longer!’
She supposed what happened next was that she had hysterics: it had never happened to her before, the total, cathartic loss of control, the drumming in her ears, the inability to see, the pounding in her head, the great flow of tears that she could not stop, the sound she could hear that was her own screaming, the beating of her own feet on the floor as she stamped, the pain of her own fists thudding against the wall. But that was what she knew, that was what she was aware of, had to endure, and then something else; strong, restraining arms round her, making her be still, a voice, quiet yet very firm, bidding her be silent; hands then, holding her wrists, to stop her beating at the wall, firm hands, pushing her into the chair, holding her there, and gradually through the tumult, a peace came, a stillness, and she could see again, and what she saw was Liam’s face, concerned, gentle, infinitely kind.
‘You have to tell me,’ he said. ‘You must tell me what the matter is. Someone has to help you. And I want it to be me.’
And he made her a cup of sweet tea, and found some brandy and poured her a glass, fetched a blanket to put round her to keep her warm, for she was shaking now, shivering violently, and sat and held her hand and stroked her hair while she told him.
Kirsten decided to go to the house and confront Francesca personally. She felt she owed her that. She phoned from the office, to see if she was there or at Stylings: Barnaby answered the phone.
‘Barnaby,’ she said quietly, forgetting Francesca for the moment, ‘you are a total and utter piece of shit. How dare you interfere in my life like that, how could you do that, tell Oliver that, when you didn’t even know? And anyway, for your information, what you told him was completely wrong, so you’re a double piece of shit.’
‘Oh,’ said Barnaby. ‘Oh I see. Well, I’m very sorry. Very very sorry. I – well, I was drunk.’
‘Oh, and that makes it perfectly all right, I suppose,’ said Kirsten. ‘You were drunk, so nothing else matters. Nobody hears what you say, believes it, gets upset by it, if you’re drunk. I really cannot believe it of you, Barnaby, I trusted you, I told you not to tell anyone, and – ’
‘I know. But Francesca said you ought to tell whoever – ’
‘Francesca? Barnaby, is there anyone you haven’t told? For God’s sake – ’
‘It was only because I was so worried about you,’ said Barnaby. ‘We, me and Tory, we just didn’t know what to do.’
‘Dad doesn’t know, does he?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, unless Francesca told him.’
‘Oh God. He’ll just about – oh well, never mind. It’s done now.’
‘How do you know?’ said Barnaby. He sounded extremely subdued.
‘Because Oliver came round to see me.’
‘Oh Christ. Did you – explain?’
‘Well, I apologised for you. Profusely. And tried to explain. But – ’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I was only – well, I suppose I was trying to help.’
‘Oh Barnaby!’ In spite of herself she laughed. ‘Next time, don’t help. Walk straight past me on the other side of the road.’
‘Yes. Yes, all right. But Kirsten, if it isn’t his, whose is it?’
‘God, do you think I’d tell you? You might broadcast it on Capital Radio next.’
‘Toby’s?’
‘Barnaby, stop it. No it’s not. Now can we change the subject, please? Is Francesca there?’
‘No,’ said Barnaby, ‘no she’s not. She’s moved out.’
‘She’s what? Moved out!’ Kirsten felt violently sick again. ‘Barney, when, where, how do you know?’
‘Last night. Apparently. I got in, found Dad in the weirdest state. He said she wasn’t there, and then this morning, Sandie told me.’
‘How did she know?’
‘Well, she saw her, apparently. Getting into the car quite late, with a suitcase. She said she and Dad had had a terrible row, and – ’
‘Oh God,’ wailed Kirsten, ‘this is all my fault. Oh Barney, I have to find her, have to talk to her.’
‘How can it be your fault?’
‘Oh – never mind. It is. Does Sandie have any idea where she is?’
‘No. But she’s not at Stylings, because I’ve tried.’
‘Probably at her mother’s,’ said Kirsten. ‘You don’t have the number, do you?’
‘No. Sorry. But she’ll be in the book.’
‘I should think she’d be in Yellow Pages in displa
y type,’ said Kirsten. ‘OK, I’ll try her there.’
‘OK. You sound better, Kirsten.’
‘I feel it,’ she said, and her voice was surprised.
Liam finally left Francesca just before lunch; she said she wanted to be alone. She had spoken to her mother, arranged to go down there, to stay at the convent.
‘I feel safe there, I can think.’
He was quite glad to be away from her; the strain was intense. He felt nervy, edgy, himself. He wondered what his father would do. Bard had phoned Rachel’s flat; they had listened to his voice, heavy, almost emotionless, on the answering machine, asking if Francesca was there, if Rachel was there, and looked at each other like guilty children, feeling in some way he was able to see them.
Somehow, for some reason, he had not thought about that; his vision had taken him only to seducing Francesca, only to his father learning of it, and no further. He supposed because there was nothing Bard could do to hurt him, except possibly physically beat him up. That was always a possibility.
He let himself into the house: the answering machine was bleeping. He poured himself a drink before listening to it.
‘I want to talk to you,’ came Bard’s voice. ‘And if you don’t get back to me, I shall come and find you. Which won’t be nice for Naomi. Or the kids. I’m at the house, ring me there.’
Liam made himself another another drink, and settled down in the big sofa in the drawing room with the phone. Halfway through dialling the number he stopped, went over to the stereo and, after a moment or two’s hesitation, put Fauré’s Requiem on. It seemed appropriate, and it was one of his favourite pieces of music. This was the moment he’d been working towards for a very long time. He wanted to enjoy it.
Francesca had decided to drive to Stylings and set off for Devon early next day. She wanted the children with her, she didn’t want to leave them. She was afraid of what Bard might do, that he might take them away somewhere.
The Dilemma Page 65
