She had spoken to her mother, told her briefly that she had left Bard, that she would explain when she saw her.
‘I’m too tired to drive down tonight. Especially with the children.’
‘Shall I come to you?’
‘No. I can’t be at Bard’s house. I just can’t. Well, not after tonight. And I certainly can’t ask you there.’
‘All right, darling. We’ll see you tomorrow. Take care.’
You could say one thing for her mother, Francesca thought: well, lots of things actually. But one particularly: she didn’t fuss.
‘Hallo, Dad. This is Liam.’
‘Ah. Where are you?’
‘At my house.’
‘Your wife’s house.’
‘Let’s call it ours.’
‘Ah. So you believe in sharing, do you? Do you share affairs?’
He didn’t answer.
‘I don’t have a great deal to say to you, Liam. And I hope this will be the last conversation we ever have. I just wanted to tell you that you’re a little shit. A pathetic, immature, amoral little shit.’
There was a silence; Liam turned the Fauré higher.
‘And as from today you do not exist for me. That’s all.’
Another silence. Then Liam said, ‘Well, I can only say I think that might be an improvement on the present situation. Although scarcely noticeable. Goodbye then, Dad. She’s a terrific lay, by the way. Isn’t she?’
The phone went dead. He smiled into it, drained his glass. Those had been without doubt the best few minutes of his life.
And then he picked up the phone and dialled another number.
The trick, Gray had discovered, when you wanted to find something out, was to hit an office at the busiest time. When the important people were all busy, and you got a minion. A minion you could fluster and who would tell you something a more clued-up and important member of a team would never reveal. The busiest time in a company was around eleven-thirty in the morning, when the top people were all in morning meetings, and the lesser ones frantically getting material ready for the afternoon ones. And the next trick was to give people very firmly a piece of incorrect information; they felt bound to give you the correct one.
At eleven-thirty-five a.m., Gray arrived at Robinson and Wetherill. He looked at the long list of registered companies just inside the door, noting a lot of very strange names that made Drab sound quite reasonable – Oral Ltd, for instance, Lookout Ltd, Carpetbagger Ltd – and smiled charmingly but rather distractedly at the receptionist.
‘Could I see someone on the Drab account?’ he said. ‘As soon as possible, it’s – ’
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do. Who shall I say it is?’
‘My name is Paul Smith,’ said Gray, his mind closing gratefully around the label inside his jacket, ‘and it’s very urgent, well, quite urgent, and – ’
‘Just one moment, please.’ She pressed several keys importantly on her computer, then waited, studied her screen, tapped some more, spoke into her phone; he heard her say, ‘Well, I know, but he says it’s very urgent. Isn’t Peter there? Oh, right. Well, I’ll tell him that, yes, but – ’
She looked up at Gray. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid there’s nobody available; everyone on that account is in a meeting now. Mr Jarvis says, though, if you could come back later, or leave a message – ’
‘No I can’t, I’m afraid. Look, couldn’t I speak to Mr Jarvis myself, I won’t take a second of his time – ’
‘Well I – ’
‘Please!’ said Gray, smiling at her his most charming smile. ‘I’m a dead man if I don’t – ’
Mr Jarvis appeared in reception; he was very young, with a white face, and badly bitten nails. Excellent, thought Gray.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I really don’t think I can help, I don’t have any details about the company at all, and I’m not empowered to – ’
‘Oh I don’t want any details,’ said Gray. ‘It’s just that I wondered if you happened to have seen Mr Channing this week? I’m supposed to be having lunch with him today, and I phoned the restaurant, Central Bistro, you know, to check, and they say he’s not booked there, so …’
There was a long silence, while Mr Jarvis stared at him blankly; go on, you little twerp, thought Gray, go on, say no, he’s not in town, or you haven’t seen him for weeks, or yes, he was here yesterday or no, he never comes in, but say something, say you register the name at least …
Finally Mr Jarvis spoke. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I really can give you no information about any of our clients.’
‘I don’t want information,’ said Gray, ‘I just want to know if he’s in Jersey this week, as I was assured he was. I’ve flown in specially from Brussels for this, and – ’
‘Mr Smith, I can’t help you. I’m sorry …’
‘Oh come on,’ said Gray. ‘Look, he’ll have me for lunch if I’ve got this wrong, I’ve obviously got the wrong place, it’s ghastly, and I’ve tried L’Horizon, where he usually stays, and he’s not there either, staying somewhere else, I suppose – ’
‘Mr Smith,’ said Mr Jarvis, ‘I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no knowledge of any Mr Channing. And even if I did,’ he added hastily, ‘I certainly wouldn’t be able to pass it on. Now if you will excuse me – ’
He left quickly, through the swing doors; Gray sighed and looked at the receptionist.
‘This is a nightmare,’ he said, in his most melting, anguished voice. ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do. You haven’t seen Channing, have you? He hasn’t been on the phone or anything?’
She stared at him, her face coldly blank. ‘I don’t know the name at all,’ she said, ‘but even if I did, we’re not allowed to give information about any of our clients … Would you excuse me now, I’m very busy … Robinson and Wetherill, can I help?’
At least, thought Gray, she didn’t say ‘How may I help you?’
He went for a walk, had several drinks in several bars, and then at three went back to his hotel, picked up the phone and dialled Robsinon and Wetherill.
‘Oh hi,’ he said, in his best American (West Coast) accent, ‘this is Jay Brownjohn of Chase calling from San Francisco, can I speak with someone on the Drab account please? Thank you – oh, hi, I wonder if you can help me, just a little hiccup on this one, did you get a letter from Mr Channing giving you a new instruction on this account? I’m sorry? Channing, yes, C-H-A-N-N – oh, really? None whatsoever. Well, that’s very odd, I was assured he – well, thank you. Thank you, very much. Yes, I will. Sure. Thanks. Bye.’
He put the phone down. Shit. It was either genuine, and no-one there had had any dealings with Bard Channing, or they were so primed up they’d have to be hung, drawn and quartered before they’d admit to it. The second seemed marginally more likely. This was getting seriously tough.
And if he wasn’t careful he’d alert someone to the fact that he was there, looking for Channing, and word just might get back to him.
He dialled Shelley’s number, asked her if she’d managed to contact either Paul le Barre or Jeffrey Tyson. She said Tyson would be at Lido’s that evening, ‘It’s a bar in Halkette Street,’ and happy to have a drink with him if he dropped by.
‘I told him you were over here on a trip and that you were hoping to open a restaurant in London, I hope that’s all right.’
‘Well done,’ said Gray.
‘But Paul le Barre’s out of town. Drying out, I should think.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for trying.’
Tricia was enjoying her week. Gray might be fun, he was very charming, he was nice to flirt with: but he was very demanding. And just lately, he’d been on the low side, irritable even, which was very unusual. And not pleased if she wasn’t there when he needed her. Which meant, basically, never being able to leave the office.
So with him in Jersey, she’d been able to catch up on her social life, lunch with her friends, arrange some dinner parties. That Tuesday, she went out for a lo
ng lunch. And when she got back, there was a note on her desk, saying a Mr Channing had rung, wanting to speak to Gray Townsend ‘urgently’ said the note. ‘He’ll ring again, or ring him on his home number, Islington four-seven-six-nine.’
Another unpleasant phone call, thought Tricia with a sigh. She supposed she’d better call Gray and tell him.
Gray wasn’t in his hotel, and his mobile was switched off. She left a message with the hotel and went back to her social life. Gray was coming back on Thursday, she could tell him then.
The new young receptionist at the Deux Jardins Hotel wrote the message down for Mr Townsend and put it in his pigeonhole. Mr Richard Townend, who had just arrived in Jersey for a week’s golf, and was also staying at the Deux Jardins, got the message to ring his assistant and duly did so. His assistant said he thought it must have been a mistake. Mr Townend was only too happy to get back to the nineteenth hole, and thought no more about it.
Francesca was just leaving her mother’s flat when Kirsten rang for a second time. She listened to her voice on the answering machine, saying she really really needed to talk to her, and was tempted to ignore it, but thinking of Barnaby’s anxiety about her, picked up the phone.
‘Hallo, Kirsten.’
‘Francesca, I’ve got to see you. Got to talk to you.’
‘This is very sudden. What’s the matter?’
‘I – don’t want to talk on the phone. Can’t I come over there?’
‘I’m sorry, Kirsten, but I’m on my way to Stylings. I’m already late. I really don’t want to wait any longer. Is it urgent?’
‘Well – yes. Yes, it is. I’ve just got to see you.’
‘All right,’ said Francesca with a sigh, ‘I’ll wait for you. Where are you?’
‘I’m at work. I’ll get a cab. I’ll be about twenty minutes.’
She was shocked at the sight of Kirsten. She had clearly lost at least half a stone; her skin was terrible, her eyes heavy and dark ringed, the glorious hair lank and dull.
‘Hallo, Francesca,’ she said awkwardly.
‘Hallo, Kirsten.’
‘I’m sorry to hold you up. But I just had to come and see you face to face. To apologise.’
‘Apologise?’ She couldn’t keep the coldness out of her voice. ‘What for this time, Kirsten? What have you done?’
‘Worse than anything I’ve done before,’ said Kirsten, and her voice was very quiet. ‘If that’s possible. And you’re going to hate me more than you ever hated me before …’
‘Kirsten, I don’t hate you,’ said Francesca. ‘That was your speciality.’
Kirsten stared at her. ‘You must do.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kirsten, but I don’t. I hate the way you behave a lot of the time, but I always thought the raw material was all right. I thought we could have got on quite well. Actually.’
‘Oh,’ said Kirsten. She sat down suddenly. ‘Sorry. I don’t feel too good.’
‘Do you want a drink of water?’
‘Yes please. You know, don’t you? About me being pregnant?’
‘Yes I do. And I’m sorry. Very sorry. I did tell Barnaby you could come and talk to me about it if you wanted to, but I didn’t think that was very likely.’
‘Well – you certainly won’t want to talk to me after I’ve told you this.’
‘Perhaps we’d better talk before you tell me, then,’ said Francesca, trying not to smile.
‘Oh – no. I couldn’t do that. I have to get it over with.’
‘Well, come on then. Shoot. As your father would say.’
‘Well, you see – ’ Kirsten visibly straightened, pulled her courage about her; it was an oddly touching sight. ‘It was me told Dad. About you and Liam. And I’m more sorry than I can say. It was unforgivable, horrible, an awful thing to do.’
‘Yes, it was,’ said Francesca, staring at her, wondering why she wasn’t more angry. ‘Why did you do it? Do you know?’
‘Because I wanted to hurt him.’
‘Hurt him! What about me?’
‘Well, I knew it would hurt you too,’ said Kirsten, with a rather engaging honesty, ‘but it was him I was bothered about. Or rather not bothered about. Oh God. Couldn’t you hit me or something?’
‘I don’t normally like hitting pregnant women,’ said Francesca, with a faint smile, ‘and it wouldn’t do much good. Why did you want to hurt your father so much?’
‘He’s so – so horrible to me,’ said Kirsten. ‘He despises me so much, always sees the bad in me, always puts everything in the worst possible light. Whatever I do, it’s wrong. Always has been. And I want to – well, I used to, when I was young – want to please him so much. I want him to be proud of me. And he never will be, never is. He’s ashamed of me. He hates me.’
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ said Francesca, ‘I think actually he loves you very much. He’s just – difficult. I know that’s a bit like saying Genghis Khan was assertive, but – ’
‘Yes. Granny Jess says that. That he loves me, I mean. But I’m afraid you’re both wrong. Anyway, he was bawling me out as usual. Misinterpreting something I’d done. Telling me I was pathetic. And I – well, there’s no excuse, I just lashed out. And it was awful of me, really awful, and I’m so, so sorry. Which doesn’t help at all, I know, but – ’
‘Yes it does,’ said Francesca, surprising herself. ‘It helps a lot. Actually. I couldn’t think who could have told him, and I kept imagining all sorts of hidden enemies I might have. But Kirsten, who told you? I don’t understand, you’ve never been anywhere near the house or anything – ’
‘Sandie told me,’ said Kirsten. ‘She doesn’t like you, I’m afraid. I’d think about sacking her, if I were you. I know she’s awfully efficient and everything, but – ’
‘I might possibly do that, Kirsten, yes. Just possibly,’ said Francesca briskly. ‘But what did she tell you, exactly?’
‘Oh, you know, she said he’d been there one day. And that you and Liam had been blowing kisses and stuff. And that you’d been to visit him loads of times in hospital – ’
‘But she didn’t know that,’ said Francesca slowly. ‘I never told her I was going. Well, except the very first time. I don’t understand …’
‘Oh they’re very clever, servants,’ said Kirsten, with all the authority of one who had grown up with them, ‘they see everything, you know. And she’s got a bit of a soft spot for Liam, always did have …’
‘Yes, I see. Er – how do you feel about him? As a matter of interest?’
‘Oh, well, I’m quite fond of him, I suppose, and I’m very sorry for him, but he’s a bit of a wanker. He really is.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Francesca, slightly faintly.
‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me what you do. Of course. And I don’t really care. I mean, anyone who lives with Dad is entitled to behave how they like, I think.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But I just wanted to – make trouble, I’m afraid. I’m very good at that,’ she added.
‘Yes. Well, that’s true.’
‘And I don’t know why. Not really. Bad lot, I am.’
‘I don’t think you’re a bad lot, Kirsten,’ said Francesca. ‘I think you’re a bit – muddled. Misguided. And you’ve had some rather – unsatisfactory parenting. I don’t think a bad lot would have done what you’ve just done. I appreciate it. So thank you. Look, I’ve really got to go. I must get down to Stylings, to the children. We still haven’t talked about you.’
‘Oh,’ said Kirsten. She looked utterly desolate suddenly. ‘There’s nothing to talk about, really. I’ve got myself into a fucking – sorry, awful, mess and I’ve got to get myself out of it.’
‘Termination?’
‘Well, obviously it’s the sensible thing to do. But I’m Catholic, you see. Ties you up in knots, that does. I don’t know if I can face it again. Anyway, don’t worry about me.’
‘Kirsten,’ said Francesca gently, ‘I do worry about yo
u. Quite a lot, actually.’
‘Well, that’s nice of you. I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’
‘You don’t want to come down to Stylings with me?’ said Francesca. ‘We could talk some more on the way.’
‘No. No, really, I’ve got to get back to work. They’ve been very good to me, I can’t let them down. Um – Francesca – you’re not going to leave Dad, are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Francesca, thinking it was hardly a decision she could make, touched that Kirsten should think she had any choice in the matter. ‘I really don’t know. I don’t know what will happen to us at all.’
‘Because he’d go completely mad if you did. Instead of just almost. If you can stand it, I really think you should stay.’
Francesca sat in the early evening traffic on the A24, thinking about the perverseness of a girl who had done everything she could to wreck her marriage, the courage to come and admit face to face that she had done so, and the naiveté to encourage her now to stay in it. And of a girl, careless of the background of great wealth against which she had grown up, who had been given everything she wanted all her life, in material terms, but who refused to take an afternoon off from her very menial job when she was clearly feeling extremely unwell, because she didn’t want to let them down. She supposed she was very like her father.
She reached Stylings at tea-time; Jack was doing what he called diving, which meant running very hard towards the swimming pool and bombing in, bottom first, displacing the maximum amount of water as he did so. He saw her mid-jump, waved ecstatically at her with both arms, and disappeared, resurfaced coughing and choking, grinning radiantly.
‘Hi, Mum. Your dress is all wet.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Francesca, looking down at her linen dress, soaked with chlorinated water – which would probably stain – marvelling that so small a body could create so large a wave, ‘I wonder how that happened.’
‘Don’t know.’ He gave her a hug. ‘It’s even wetter now. I missed you.’
The Dilemma Page 66
