The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I wish she’d seen it that way,’ said Bard. ‘But anyway, what was this – breaking point?’

  ‘It was the way you behaved,’ she said flatly, ‘with that woman.’

  ‘Woman?’ said Bard. ‘What woman, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Mrs Duncan-Brown.’

  ‘Mrs Duncan-Brown?’ said Bard. ‘Marcia, I swear to God, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘On the day of the crash. When I wanted so much to be able to comfort you, when I had – well, clearly it meant nothing to you. I meant nothing to you.’

  Her voice shook slightly; she got up, poured herself another whisky, sat down again. ‘And then to see you there, with her. In the office, our office. Not your wife, that would have been different, of course a man in your situation has to have a wife, I always accepted that. But her. You holding her, your head on her – her breasts.’

  Bard stared at her. She was looking at him with total distaste; he felt rather sick.

  ‘Frankly,’ she said, ‘I found that disgusting. Humiliating and disgusting. It made me realise the sort of man you really are. I’d like you to go now, Mr Channing, please. But I shall look forward to your court case. I shall look forward to it very much indeed.’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Kirsten sat in the car beside Barnaby, her teeth chattering. She felt very cold, and her head ached. She was also terribly thirsty, but was forbidden to have anything to drink.

  ‘You OK?’ he said, looking at her.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  ‘Soon be there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Soon be there. Soon she’d have it done. Soon it would be over. Soon it would be dead.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she said, and then, struck by the inappropriateness of her words, giggled; a nervous, hysterical giggle.

  They arrived at the hospital, a lush, expensive place in North London. Barnaby stopped the car. ‘I’ll go and park, be with you in a minute.’

  ‘You will come back, won’t you?’ said Kirsten.

  ‘Of course I will, you silly cow,’ said Barnaby with his widest grin. ‘Five minutes max.’

  Kirsten watched the car disappear with a lump in her throat, thinking how much he must be hating this, how very much she loved him.

  The woman in Reception was brisk, cool. Kirsten felt sure she knew what she was there for, disapproved of it. She filled in the admission form, followed a nurse down the corridor, up in the lift.

  ‘My brother’s coming back in a minute,’ she said, ‘you will make sure he comes up to my room, won’t you?’

  ‘I surely will,’ said the nurse, grinning. She was Australian, plump, freckled. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Oh – you know. Bit sick.’

  ‘We’ll give you something for that,’ said the nurse. ‘Soon be over. Now you pop up into that lovely robe there, and I’ll take your blood pressure and all that and then – ’

  Kirsten sighed, and started to undress.

  Barnaby came back, ultra cheerful.

  ‘Hi, all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so. Barney – ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you believe in hell?’

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Nah. Load of bollocks if you ask me. All of it.’

  ‘Barney! What would Mum say?’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t done her much good, has it? Her religion?’

  ‘Well no, but – ’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s all a matter of geography, if you ask me. I realised that in India. If you’re born there, you believe in cows and reincarnation; if you get to be born here, you believe in hell. How’s that?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Kirsten, ‘but it’s given me something to think about.’

  Peter Stainforth, who had spent a rather restless night, phoned David Sloane first thing on Saturday morning.

  ‘Michael, morning. Sorry to intrude on your weekend. I’m a bit thoughtful about Channing.’

  ‘In what way thoughtful?’

  ‘Oh – you know. The usual way. I just feel he might feel a bit restless, you know what I mean? I thought perhaps we should take the usual steps fairly quickly. He might want to go walkabouts suddenly. Or even sail-abouts,’ he added.

  ‘Hardly that, surely,’ said Sloane, ‘you don’t get the sort of places he’d be making for in a boat. But I think you might be right. Yes, OK. I’ll have a bit of a think and get back to you.’

  Kitty had slept heavily; Francesca woke her at midnight, as instructed, and gave her her medicine, and had to wake her again at six. She seemed no worse, but she was no better either, flushed and wheezy. Rachel had come in at six-thirty, looking anxious. Jack had been moved into her room.

  ‘How is she? I heard her coughing.’

  ‘Not very well,’ said Francesca. ‘Oh, dear God, I wish we were at home.’

  ‘You don’t want to go now? In spite of what that nice old doctor said?’

  ‘I still haven’t got a bloody car.’

  ‘Well, I know Reverend Mother would take us into Bideford. Or even lend us her car.’

  ‘Well I – oh, I don’t know, Mummy. Kitty’s still feverish. The doctor could be right. The journey would exhaust her. I think we should wait until she’s a bit better. She’s holding her own, at least she’s not any worse.’

  Kitty opened her eyes and smiled up at them and then coughed, several times, hard; that made her cry, and she coughed more. Francesca sat holding her, stroking her silky hair, trying to crush the panic she felt, trying to tell herself it was just a matter of time. That it was only a cold. Only a cold.

  Philip Drew was eating his breakfast when Bard Channing telephoned. His wife, who was getting very tired of Bard Channing’s voice and its inevitable effect on what should have been their private life, said rather shortly that she’d get her husband, but they were just going to go out.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ said Bard.

  Drew came to the phone. ‘Morning, Bard.’

  ‘Good morning. Look, Philip, I had a bit of a shock yesterday. It seems the SFO aren’t quite so bright as we thought. Someone’s been giving them information, that’s how they’ve been doing so well. Someone with an inside view, as you might say.’

  ‘Oh really? Important information?’

  ‘Well, they clearly think so.’

  ‘Who is this person?’

  ‘My secretary.’

  ‘What, Marcia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christ.’

  There was a long silence while Drew took this in, clearly examining its implications. Finally he said, ‘How absolutely extraordinary. I thought she adored you.’

  ‘She did,’ said Bard grimly. ‘That’s what seems to be the trouble. Menopausal fantasies at work, I’m afraid. Look Philip, I won’t keep you long. I’ve been thinking, though. What might their next step be? The SFO, I mean.’

  ‘Well, without knowing what she’s been telling them, of course, but to be brutally frank, and if they thought there was more of a case, then I think, given your interests abroad and so on, they might well wish to see your passport removed. And put out a port stop. While they continued with their investigations.’

  ‘I thought you might say that,’ said Bard. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Bard, you’re not going to do anything silly, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Bard.

  Kirsten had had her pre-med; she was becoming drowsy. She lay, her hair tucked up into her paper hat, her face tranquil. She was hardly recognisable, Barnaby thought. She still clung to his hand; he was beginning to be afraid he’d have to go into the theatre with her. Kathy, the nurse, had already assured Kirsten he could go down in the lift with her, stay with her until she was under the anaesthetic.

  ‘Barnaby,’ she said suddenly, her voice slightly slurred, ‘Barnaby, can you give me one of the hankies in my bag? The big bag over there.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He r
ummaged in the bag, found three neatly folded men’s handkerchiefs, gave her one.

  ‘Thanks. This is very important to me,’ she said carefully, clasping it tightly in her hand, ‘very important. Make sure I don’t lose it. Don’t let them take it away down there, will you?’

  ‘No,’ said Barnaby. ‘No, I won’t.’

  There was a long silence. Then she said, her voice hazier still, ‘Oliver’s, you know. Oliver’s hankies.’

  ‘Oliver’s?’ said Barnaby. Clearly the stuff was making her confused.

  ‘Yes. He – gave them to me. At – the – funeral.’

  ‘Oliver Clarke?’ said Barnaby. He was beginning to feel confused himself. Nothing could have been made clearer to him than that this baby was nothing to do with Oliver, and here she was clasping his handkerchief as if it were a lifeline.

  ‘Yes. I love Oliver, Barney. I – think.’

  Two tears trickled from beneath her lashes; she wiped them away with the handkerchief.

  ‘You love Oliver?’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Think so. And you. Love you.’

  ‘Er – does he know you love him?’

  ‘Mmm? No. Don’t know.’

  She was silent, drifted off into sleep; obviously hallucinating, thought Barnaby, unconscious already.

  Kathy came in with two porters and a trolley. ‘Right then, Kirsten, you just pop on to this trolley and down we go.’

  ‘Shall I disappear now, then?’ said Barnaby hopefully.

  Kirsten’s hand shot out, gripped his. ‘Don’t go, Barney.’ Not unconscious. Not hallucinating.

  They walked down the corridor, him beside the trolley. She gazed up at the ceiling, still gripping his hand. Barnaby didn’t know about Kirsten, but he certainly felt sick. They went down in the lift, along another corridor, and into a brilliantly lit room, the walls lined with boxes of instruments, three people in masks and gowns. Shit, he’d got into the operating theatre, this was a nightmare, his own worst nightmare. He tried to ease his hand away from hers, but she still clung on.

  ‘Hallo Kirsten.’ Meg was there, smiling down at her, and then at Barnaby. ‘And what a good brother you are. Right now, Kirsten, this is Dr Morgan, the anaesthetist, he came up earlier, he’s going to be looking after you.’

  Kirsten nodded, smiling rather vaguely. Dr Morgan took her hand, tapped it, looking for the vein. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘now just a little prick.’

  Kirsten giggled suddenly. ‘That’s what did it,’ she said, ‘just a prick.’

  ‘Shut up, Kirsten!’ said Barnaby, embarrassed.

  Meg Wilding laughed. ‘She’s a bit drunk,’ she said, ‘it’s the pre-med.’

  ‘Can you hear me, Kirsten?’ said Dr Morgan.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ll take that, shall I?’ said Kathy. It was the handkerchief, she was easing it out of Kristen’s hand.

  ‘No!’ said Kirsten sharply. ‘No, I want it.’

  Meg shook her head at Kathy. ‘Leave it,’ she said.

  ‘Now Kirsten, I want you to count up to ten,’ said Dr Morgan. He was putting something into the needle now.

  ‘Love Oliver,’ said Kirsten, smiling seraphically now, her lids closing, ‘loves me. One – two – ’ She was gone.

  ‘I’ll take the handkerchief,’ said Barnaby, removing it easily now from her limp hand. ‘Important to her. Um – I might faint or something, I’m afraid. If I have to watch,’ he added, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

  Meg smiled at him, her hand on the trolley, walking it gently away from him, towards the double doors at the end of the small room. Of course, that was the operating theatre, not this. God, he was an idiot.

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ she said, ‘but I think you’re very brave to have come this far. Not many brothers would have done this. You go off and have a well-earned stiff drink.’

  ‘How long will she be?’

  ‘She’ll be back in her room in about forty minutes at the most. But she’ll be very sleepy for a while after that. No rush …’

  ‘OK,’ said Barnaby, ‘thanks. Where’s the nearest phone?’

  Elaine Briggs had worked for Action Travel in Chiswick for four years. It wasn’t exactly exciting, but she liked it; you met lots of interesting people, well quite interesting anyway, although her friend Carol who worked at the Kensington branch met really interesting ones, models and so on, and once one of the Breakfast TV people had come in, and Chiswick wasn’t really in that league, but still it was a nice job, people on the whole were polite to you and in a good mood when they were booking tickets, which Carol said was more than she could say for some of the models.

  Anyway, the man who’d come in that morning had been interesting all right. Obviously lots of money, to judge from his watch and the car he’d parked outside, although he had quite a London accent. Paid with his Barclaycard, nothing flash, no platinum Amex or anything. And it had been quite a complicated request. Complicated, but not difficult. Everyone in France these days spoke English, thank goodness, it wasn’t like when she’d been at school and they’d gone on that trip to Brittany, and it had been quite hard making themselves understood half the time.

  Anyway, it had been fun doing it, she’d felt a bit like someone in a telly programme. Made a change from package tours to Corfu.

  ‘The thing is, Gray,’ said Briony, her large blue eyes very earnest, ‘I just wish you hadn’t told me all that. I don’t know why you did.’

  ‘Well, I felt I had to,’ said Gray. He could feel a lurch of unease in his stomach. ‘It was all very important. Important in making my decision.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s also very hard for me to cope with. I mean, I’d hardly left you. And it wasn’t as if it was some scrubber you’d just picked up somewhere. I know you had a soft spot for Kirsten Channing, ages ago. I know what she looks like too,’ she added.

  ‘Bri, I know all this. And of course I shouldn’t have done it. But I was so – unhappy. Lonely. That’s how it happened.’

  ‘Yes, well, I was unhappy and lonely too,’ said Briony, ‘but I didn’t go falling into bed with the first good-looking bloke who came along.’

  ‘Briony, I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you even more than I had already. I – ’

  ‘Yes, well you have,’ said Briony. ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t see it would. Why you couldn’t just have told me you’d changed your mind. Without all this detail.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Gray. He felt angry suddenly, that she didn’t understand, was too caught up in her own distress to recognise his. ‘Briony, this is an earth-shattering thing that’s happened to me. I felt so strongly before that I could never, ever want – what you wanted. So strongly that however much I loved you, it was unthinkable. If something was to change that, it was going to be serious. Important. Do you honestly think if I’d just come along to you and said hey, Briony, it’s all right now, I’ve changed my mind and I do want a baby after all, you’d have believed me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes I do.’

  ‘Well, actually, I don’t think you would. It would all have been very hunkydory at first, and then you’d have started wondering. If I really meant it, if I was going to change my mind again.’

  ‘Yes, but – ’

  ‘Briony, we’ve always been so honest with each other. That’s why I let you go, for Christ’s sake. It would have been much easier to have said yes, OK, we’ll do it in a year or two, I give in, and then gone on putting it off, or even agreeing and then telling you I’d changed my mind again. Don’t you see?’

  She sat staring at him. ‘Yes, I do see that. But you obviously really cared about Kirsten, about what happened to her, about the baby, it hurt you a lot. I don’t know if I can handle that, Gray, I really don’t.’

  ‘Well, is that so terrible? Why can’t you be pleased by that? Don’t you see, Briony, it can’t be so bad, can it, that I find the thought of her being pregnant with my baby so moving? And the thought of that baby bein
g – well, done away with – so sad.’

  ‘I just know,’ she said, ‘that I find the thought of you going to bed with Kirsten Channing a few days after we – after I left you – very horrible. And then her being the one who got pregnant with your child, not me – it’s hideous, Gray, you must understand that.’

  He didn’t say anything, just sat staring at his hands.

  ‘What would you have done if she’d wanted you to marry her? With this great new discovery of yours, of your paternal instinct. Would you have married her, Gray? Being so fond of her and everything, caring about her so much?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said very quietly. ‘I’ve thought about that, obviously, but it’s impossible really to get my head round. She was so – so against the idea.’

  ‘Well, that’s very nice for me,’ said Briony briskly, ‘and very convenient for you. I get her cast-offs. Shit, Gray, I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘Briony, please. Try and look at it my way.’

  ‘I am looking at it your way. And your way looks pretty damn convenient. Screw some girl you’ve fancied for ages, get her pregnant, discover you want a baby after all and then go back to your original girlfriend. Well, I’m sorry, Gray, but I don’t feel very much part of this decision. And this story you’ve trashed. Is that because of Kirsten?’ ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘partly it is. But it’s for all of them, really. I like Bard Chaning, even if he is a crook. I like his wife even more, she’s very sweet. Liam Channing’s a bastard, I’d hate to contribute to his nasty little scheme. It would have made things so much worse for them all, that story. Dragging things up from the past, hurting people who don’t deserve it – ’

  ‘Oh Gray, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t heard you talk like this before. Not when you exposed the Brunning scandal, not when you had Tony Packard all over your front page.’

  ‘I didn’t know their families,’ he said.

  ‘But they had families, you must have realised that. And Brunning and Packard didn’t think of them too much. Any more than Bard Channing thought of his.’