The High Flyer

by Susan Howatch

  “Your fiancé’s in the throes of divorce? But I thought clergymen didn’t do that kind of thing!”

  “Mostly they don’t but it does happen nowadays and it’s so difficult for Nicholas because the Healing Centre’s trustees disapprove and that’s why our engagement has to be a secret—that’s why I never refer to him as my fiancé—that’s why—”

  “—that’s why your life’s currently damn tough. But why’s the wife playing the limpet?”

  “Well, their elder son got involved in a drug-bust, and Rosalind feels she can’t cope on her own, so—”

  “The situation’s obviously a nightmare. Are you sure you want to marry this man? After all, you’ve got plenty of sex-appeal—you can’t be short of admirers.”

  Alice boggled. “Me?”

  I suddenly saw the problem. I never cease to be amazed how many attractive women have such low self-esteem that they crucify themselves over unsuitable men. “Yes, you!” I barked, unable to resist trying to drill some sense into her. “Hey, don’t waste time over this man if he’s too much of a wimp over the wife to give you a square deal!”

  “Oh, Nicholas could never be described as a wimp! I know he loves me and I know he wants to marry me, but—”

  “Listen, sister, you’ve got to take a much tougher line with this ditherer if you don’t want to wind up trashed! Abandon the stiff upper lip, stop being so damned nice and kick in a door or two to let him know you’re getting restless!”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Is he one of your dinner-party guests tonight?”

  “No, he’s gone down to Surrey to see his wife.”

  “Well, all I can say is it’s damned lucky it’s not me he’s engaged to! I’d smash his teeth in!”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ve outstayed my welcome,” I said, rising to my feet, “and been bloody rude into the bargain, but I like you, Alice, and I think you deserve all the support you can get.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I do appreciate the sympathy. I’ve been feeling a bit down lately, and—”

  “A bit? God, you’re brave! Most women would be in a depression as deep as the Grand Canyon by this time and pigging out on Prozac!”

  The doorbell rang a second time.

  “Wait there,” said Alice, who was now looking not merely dazed by my volubility but enthralled. “Just wait. Don’t go away.” She darted from the room.

  I poured myself another finger of sherry to keep my brain synapses firing and knocked it back while she was opening the front door.

  “Hullo, my dear . . .” I instantly recognised the voice I had heard during my lunchtime call to the Rectory; there was no mistaking those crisp, bossy tones coupled with that old-fashioned public-school accent. Realising I was about to meet a tiger-thumper I checked my appearance in the mirror above the fireplace and prepared to give him a memory which would make his flesh creep.

  “Carter Graham’s here,” Alice was saying to him over her shoulder as she led the way into the living-room, and added to me: “Carter, this is Lewis Hall who works with Nicholas at St. Benet’s.”

  Shattered to see that the tiger-thumper was yet another clergyman, I took a moment to absorb the fact that he was very different from Nicholas Darrow. For a start he was old. He had silver hair, black eyes with bags underneath, a hawkish nose and a streetwise look, as if he had seen everything there was to see and done everything there was to do not just once but at least three times. His thuggish build was incongruously encased in the traditional clerical gear which was topped off by a thick white collar and garnished with a glitzy little pectoral cross.

  “How do you do, Miss Graham,” he said, holding out his hand with professional ease. “I’ve been hearing about you.”

  “It’s Ms. Graham,” I said, certain this would infuriate him. “How do you do, Mr. Hall.”

  “It’s Father Hall,” he said without missing a beat, “and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  What a tiger-thumper, immediately trying to chop me down to size by flaunting a paternalistic authority! But I always respected the thumpers who kept their cool.

  “Carter,” Alice was saying, “I don’t have to introduce my second guest, do I?”

  I looked past her and saw Eric Tucker.

  IV

  Tucker was wearing an eye-zapping shirt—sky-blue but with wide cream stripes—and a silver-buckled belt which slunk sinuously around the waistband of his tight black trousers. The open neck of the shirt revealed curly dark hair which might or might not have had a reddish tinge when exposed to strong sunlight, and his sleeves were demurely buttoned at the wrists, a fashion statement which would no doubt have sent all the office fluffettes into a fresh frenzy of speculation. I almost felt fluffy myself but decided this was just the result of drinking Alice’s sherry.

  “Greetings, Ms. G!”

  “Hey, Tucker! Why aren’t you in seclusion, toiling away on your book?”

  “I got hungry. We starving authors are notoriously reliant on good women who throw us a crust every now and then in the name of Christian charity!”

  I said poker-faced: “So glad you’re getting a change from champagne.”

  “Talking of crusts,” said Alice, “do stay to dinner, Carter! There’s plenty to eat and you’d balance the numbers so beautifully—do say you’ll stay!”

  For one long moment I thought how pleasant it would be to remain in that warm, welcoming room while I jousted with the tiger-thumper and traded quips with Tucker and displayed feminine solidarity with Alice, but I knew I had to go. I could not bear to keep fulfilling Mrs. Mayfield’s prophecy—or rather, her outrageously lucky guess—and anyway there was no point in being drawn further into a world which had no place in my life-plan.

  “Thanks, Alice,” I said, “but my husband’s expecting me. I’ve got to get back.”

  “I’ve a feeling we’ll meet again,” said the tiger-thumper, giving me a very straight look with his sharp black eyes, “but meanwhile I wish you well.”

  Another prophet! Repressing a shudder I murmured a politeness and edged away.

  “Drop in at the St. Benet’s Healing Centre some time!” said Tucker impulsively. “I’m there every Thursday evening as a Befriender, doing the late shift!”

  “Befriender?”

  “Trained listener for people in trouble. We’re like the Samaritans.”

  I was quite unable to stop myself lingering. “You mean you do voluntary work?”

  “It’s the condition I have to fulfil in order to live at my brother’s vicarage . . . By the way, how’s the chap who went native in Beijing?”

  “Still faxing quotes from Confucius.”

  I heard him laugh. I longed to stay. My hand even faltered before it reached the catch which opened the front door.

  “Thanks for your help, Alice,” I said in the hall. “If ever you want moral support, just give me a call.”

  Alice seemed delighted by this offer. Indeed it was touching how grateful she was. I found it amazing that a London woman could reach her mid-thirties and still appear so unspoiled by the sheer nastiness of so much urban life, and I wondered if she had spent her twenties being a nun, marooned in some place where life had passed her by. She had the air of a Cinderella who had not been too long at the ball, and I felt unexpectedly protective of her, as if she were in some strange way a reflection of my younger self, the self who had arrived in Oxford to play Cinderella in the 1970s.

  Having grabbed a cab in Farringdon Road I cruised south to the Barbican. The slim, sharp-edged tower-blocks were visible ahead, conjuring up images of sharks’ teeth, and the thought of sharks reminded me with a shiver of Kim. I had lied to Alice. My husband was not waiting for me at home. It was Tuesday evening and he had gone to the Simmonses’ flat in Wapping to say goodbye to the group. He had told me he would be home by nine and I knew I had to spend the intervening time figuring out what I was going to say to him, but the trouble was my mind was now shying away from Alic
e’s firm opinion that Sophie was sane. I could not face the implications. I was too tired—and too shell-shocked still from the revelation that Kim had no desire for children. My mind now only wanted to close down.

  I was half afraid I would find the flat in disarray again, but to my relief everything was in order. Suddenly my exhaustion overwhelmed me. Stumbling into the bedroom I flaked out on top of the duvet.

  When Kim woke me later by shutting the front door, the darkness at once made me wonder what time it was, and remembering his promise to be home by nine I glanced at the luminous figures of the bedside clock.

  The hands pointed to twelve minutes past midnight.

  V

  I shot off the bed, flicked on the lights in the passage which led from the hall to the living-room and caught him as he padded noiselessly away across the thick carpet.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  He swung to face me but remained calm. “Didn’t you get my message?”

  “What message?” I said before remembering that I had flaked out without checking the new answering machine. “Sorry,” I said confused. “I goofed.” Following him down the corridor I entered the living-room and played back the message. He had said: “I’ll be leaving the group early, as promised, but I’ll be back later than I anticipated. I’ll explain later.”

  “So explain,” I said, resetting the machine.

  “I had to take Mrs. Mayfield home.”

  “Damn the woman! Okay, you had to go all the way from Wapping in the east to Fulham in the west and then double back as far as the City, but in the evening you could do that journey without getting stuck in traffic jams. Why the long delay?”

  “Mrs. Mayfield asked me in.”

  “What for?”

  “A cup of tea.”

  “You sat drinking tea for”—I did a quick calculation—“well over two hours? What on earth were you talking about?”

  “This and that.” He yawned, wandered into the kitchen and filled a glass with Evian water. I stared at him. The mildness of his reactions and the languor of his movements made me wonder if he was drunk. It was as if someone had put a stifling hand on his personality and caused it to blur at the edges.

  “How did the parting with the group go?” I said sharply, changing tack to give myself more time to analyse his behaviour.

  “Fine. No problem. Mrs. Mayfield saw to that.” He yawned again before drinking more water.

  “Excuse me asking,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as his as I followed him to the bedroom, “but what exactly did you discuss with Mrs. Mayfield?”

  “What I always discuss with her: my problems. I hadn’t realised how steeply my stress levels had been rising as the result of Sophie acting up and Mandy spilling the beans and you saying you wanted children, but as soon as I started talking—”

  “For Christ’s sake!” I was shocked to the core. “Kim, that conversation of ours was private! How dare you go repeating it to that woman!”

  “But she was great! She made me feel laid-back. I’m fine now.”

  A horrific thought struck me as I watched him clumsily unknot his tie. “Kim, have you been taking drugs?”

  Instantly he sharpened up. Now it was his turn to sound shocked. “Not unless you count Mrs. Mayfield’s herb tea! Give me a break, Carter—you know I’d never do such a thing!”

  I was silent. I did indeed know we had identical views on the subject of drug-taking, a practice which was becoming increasingly frequent among the City’s white-collar workers, although only a lawyer with a yearning to self-destruct broke the law by toking up at work. Curtis, Towers had a policy of instant dismissal if anyone was caught abusing illegal substances, and Graf-Rosen’s rules were similarly tough. What the whippets and fluffettes did outside the office was their own affair, but no high flyer who wanted to stay aloft risked ruin for a drug habit, just as no high flyer risked becoming too dependent on alcohol. One needed to keep one’s wits razor-sharp. At work I never even drank in the lunch-hour. My drinking was strictly an after-hours activity.

  I heard myself say levelly: “Nevertheless you’re giving the impression you’ve taken a hit. Just what was in Mrs. Mayfield’s herb tea?”

  “Sweetheart, you’re being paranoid about Mrs. Mayfield!”

  “Look,” I said, trying hard to stay calm but not altogether succeeding, “this woman makes no secret of the fact that she thinks I’m bad news. Can’t you understand how hurtful it is to me to know you’ve consulted her behind my back and told her about that very private conversation we had this morning?”

  “I’m sorry, but I felt I just had to get advice about how to put things right—”

  “But we’d have worked everything out! I still don’t see why you—”

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” he interrupted, and escaped.

  I shed my clothes, pulled on my robe and sat bolt upright on the edge of the bed. My brain, soothed by several hours of deep sleep, was now firing on all cylinders, but in contrast Kim’s brain was clearly cob-webbed. If I was going to hit him hard for crucial information this was the time to do it, and although the thought of another row was appalling, I felt I had to know what the truth was about Sophie and the disorder in the flat.

  To psych myself up I pictured Kim confiding in Mrs. Mayfield. That certainly triggered the adrenaline rush I needed, and as I took a deep breath to prepare for blast-off, Kim wandered back from the bathroom. “My pupils look normal,” he commented. “I think we can exonerate Mrs. Mayfield’s herb tea.”

  “Well, ain’t that grand!” I snapped. “But it’s you I’m interested in exonerating! Now just you tell me this: did you make that mess in the flat yesterday and encourage me to blame Sophie?”

  His eyes widened. I could see him struggling to work out first if he had heard me correctly, second how I could have come up with such a theory and third how he should react, but unfortunately this sequence was proof of neither innocence nor guilt, only of the fact that I had stunned him. I decided to twist the knife.

  “You could have made that mess yesterday morning before you left for the office,” I said. “In fact that’s the most obvious explanation.”

  He said flatly: “You’re out of your mind,” and slumped down on the bed before demanding: “What was my motivation, for God’s sake?”

  “You tell me.”

  He groaned and began to unbutton his shirt. “All I’m going to say is that I’m dead beat and in twenty seconds from now I’m going to be unconscious. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “It is tomorrow. Kim, if I didn’t love you so much, I’d let this ride, but—”

  “You can’t be serious about such a grotesque theory!”

  “I’m certainly serious in thinking there’s something profoundly off-key going on and that it’s all connected with Mrs. Mayfield!”

  He flung his shirt on the floor and stood up again. “Let’s try and get this straight. You’re upset because you feel I’ve betrayed you by talking to Mrs. Mayfield about a private matter. But my conversations with her are entirely confidential, and if she were a qualified therapist you wouldn’t think twice about what I’ve done!”

  “But she’s not a qualified therapist! And how can she possibly give you objective advice about your marriage anyway when she’s admitted she’s utterly opposed to it?”

  “I think she’ll come round to the marriage. I think that in time—”

  “What time? You told me you were going to break with her as soon as possible!”

  “Yes, I know I told you that, but if she comes to accept the marriage—”

  “My God, she’s been trying to make you go back on your decision to junk her! Kim, can’t you see how she’s manipulating you? Can’t you understand what’s happening?”

  “It’s you who can’t understand!” Suddenly he had sloughed off his sleepiness as easily as he had stripped off his shirt, and had fired himself up to counter-attack. “The trouble with you,” he said exasperated, “is that you refu
se to acknowledge the spiritual dimension of life—you’re so keen to escape reality that you’re like a horse in blinkers, only able to see the scenery straight ahead and missing the view on either side!”

  “Well, if the view on either side encompasses horrors like Mrs. Mayfield, thank God for blinkers, that’s all I can say! Too bad you don’t have any blinkers of your own!”

  “Shut up and listen,” he said seizing control of the conversation, but I hadn’t lost the game, not yet, not by a long chalk, because he was now so annoyed that he might commit an indiscretion which I could use to open him up and drag the truth kicking and screaming into the light of day.

  Sensing the conversation was about to move into an even more disturbing phase, I leaned back against the wall to fake an air of relaxation and waited for the chance to move in for the kill.

  VI

  “I may have given you the impression I don’t believe in God,” Kim was saying strongly, “but in fact what I meant, when I was telling you about my spiritual quest after my visit to Auschwitz, was: ‘He wasn’t there for me.’ I do think God exists somewhere, but he’s a very second-rate deity— he’s withdrawn from the world after making a mess of it, and so the forces we have to deal with on a day-to-day basis are the Powers and Principalities. Mrs. Mayfield just calls them the Powers.

  “I lived with those Powers when I was growing up. I saw them all around me, I saw what they did to people, I saw what they did to my parents, but I had no power over the Powers, I had no more power than the little kids who died in the camps. I was regularly beaten up by the Powers, but there was nothing I could do except promise myself that one day—one day —I’d get the power to beat them back. And that was why I started chasing money and success. I worked and I worked and I worked and I did get power, but the power was never enough—the Powers still pursued me, I couldn’t throw them off, and finally there came a time, the time of the blackmail, when I thought I was done for, but Mrs. Mayfield saved me. She saved me because she had real power—she had power over the Powers, she could manipulate them, bend them to her will because she could access that Supreme Power, that primeval force, which ultimately controls them. So don’t ever ask me again what I see in Mrs. Mayfield, because when I’m wrestling with the Powers, she’s the one who knows how to rescue me. She’s the one who can send them back to their source, that primeval source from which they come.”