The High Flyer

by Susan Howatch

  DAVID F. FORD

  The Shape of Living

  I

  “E. T., I presume.”

  “All ready for the Close Encounters, Ms. G! What’s this?”

  “My hand. I thought you might want to shake it.”

  “But don’t I get to kiss the air on either side of your head?”

  “I had no idea you got your kicks out of kissing air, Tucker. Don’t you find it rather insubstantial?”

  I was, of course, on autopilot, hardly aware of what I was saying. Only the experience of many business meetings when I had perfected the art of staying ice-cool and glass-smooth in searing circumstances was now preventing me from liquefying into a white-hot mess. All the nerve-endings in the pit of my stomach were rippling. My heart was beating hard enough to bust a valve. I was stupefied. In fact I was shocked to the core.

  It is one thing to like a man a great deal, to appreciate his particular brand of sexuality and to indulge in some dead-pan bantering which appeals to one’s sense of humour. It is quite another to encounter that same man and want to rush straight to the nearest bed. However the next moment lust had been overtaken by fright. I told myself I was retreating from my marital disaster into a fantasy. I told myself the disordered feelings were merely reflecting my disordered life. I told myself that whichever way one cut the cake I was grabbing the nutty slice. But no matter what I told myself I knew I now had a far more serious problem than feeling compelled to sob against a male chest.

  Meanwhile Tucker was saying casually: “You’re looking good!” And he smiled again.

  “Thanks. You too,” I said in my crispest voice, and glanced down at his duty-free shopping bags. I found myself gazing at them as if I had never seen a duty-free shopping bag before.

  “It’s really good of you to meet me like this!” he exclaimed, very friendly. “Can I buy you a drink before we start out?”

  I murmured a monosyllable indicating substantial confusion.

  “You’re not keen on a drink-drive situation? Okay, let’s postpone the booze till we get back to Fleetside.”

  I remember thinking that whatever happened I had to avoid the vodka martinis.

  We set off to the car park. I asked politely after his health and he said he was fine. He asked politely after my health and I said I was still in one piece.

  “And what a piece!” he said with a touch of his old flirtatiousness, but then without allowing me time to reply, he started to talk about his parents, their villa and his convalescence. This smoothly crafted stream of chat took us all the way to the car park’s pay-machine.

  “. . . and so all I did was swim and exercise as much as the doctor recommended. Nothing else to do. Couldn’t write with the parents twittering around. Couldn’t think of anything except what might or might not be going on in London. Couldn’t talk to the parents about anything—I told them I was too traumatised, but fortunately Gil had long since given them a sanitised version of events . . . Hey, Ms. G, if only you’d waited instead of shooting in front of me like that, I would have paid for the parking!”

  “Forget it—just give me a mega-drink when we hit the Vicarage,” I said, but at once began to speculate fearfully about the contents of the duty-free shopping bags.

  I was still trying to work out what excuse I could give to avoid all alcohol when Tucker was diverted by the sight of my Porsche.

  “That car,” he said, “gives the sin of covetousness a whole new dimension.”

  “Nice, isn’t it?” I managed to issue a casual apology for the lack of storage space but when I slid behind the steering-wheel I was in such a state that I could hardly fit the key in the ignition. Meanwhile Tucker was stowing his hand-luggage in the minuscule boot and sliding his cases into the cramped area behind the front seats. A moment later he had scrambled into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

  There was a silence which seemed to last a full minute but was probably no more than five seconds. Then he said—and his whole manner was quite altered: “Carter.”

  I dared not look at him. Instead I looked at the ignition key, deep in its narrow slot.

  He said in a low voice: “I know I’ve been droning drivel to spike the tension, but you mustn’t think I’ve forgotten you’re going through hell and you mustn’t think I just dragged you out here so that I could get a free ride home. I really need to see you—talk to you—help you in any way I can . . . Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” I said at once. “Fine. If I seem slightly brain-dead it’s because I’m just so . . . well, so relieved to see that you’re fully recovered and looking so . . . well, so . . .” My voice trailed away.

  “Yes.” The single syllable wrapped up the whole situation and sparked a moment of wordless communication in which a number of emotions surfaced. I still did not dare to look at him, but I heard him say in that quiet, level voice: “There’s one other thing you mustn’t think I’ve forgotten, Carter. I haven’t forgotten you’re married.”

  I covered my face with my hands.

  II

  “That’s why I didn’t call,” he said. “That’s why I just sent postcards. That’s why I agreed to go to the Algarve. Even I, dumb as I’ve been about women in the past, could see that you were so bruised by all the marital chaos that the last thing you needed was to deal with me when I was toked up on testosterone. Gil spelled it all out to me when I was in hospital but he didn’t have to. I work at St. Benet’s. I know that the one thing that’s absolutely taboo is to mess with the vulnerable people who seek help there.”

  I let my hands rest on the wheel. “What did Gil say?”

  “He said: ‘The marriage could still work out. If it doesn’t you need to be sure that’s no fault of yours. Her needs come first here, and if you forget that it’s abuse.’ ”

  “So you remembered.”

  “So I remembered. And I’m still remembering, but I had to come back, Carter. When I read between the lines of your postcards and realised how tough things were, I called Gil and said: ‘Look, I’m a big boy now. I’m coming home to be a mature adult and if you don’t like it you can sod off.’ ‘Give me your word you’ll do nothing stupid,’ he said, ‘and I’ll sod off anywhere you like,’ and that was when I begged him to sort out the parents. He was due to visit them for a weekend anyway—he always does when they’re out there. No services at St. Eadred’s on a weekend, of course. It’s a Guild church like St. Benet’s.”

  I suddenly found it much easier to speak. “But why were your parents working themselves into such a snit?”

  “They’re still recovering from the shock that I nearly snuffed it and they’ve convinced themselves they’ll have no peace until they’ve steered me into a radically different lifestyle. My father says he can get me a job teaching history at a prep school in Winchester, and my mother says she knows a nice girl who—well, when she started telling me I had to stay on at the villa to meet the Grantly-Pattersons who were arriving with their unmarried daughter at the weekend . . . Carter, I couldn’t cope. I was going fruity-toots.”

  “Fruity-loops,” I said, finally managing to look at him.

  “I think I prefer fruity-toots,” said Tucker. “It’s perkier.”

  At that point we laughed, and afterwards I found I was no longer frightened of being destroyed by another melt-down. The sexual desire was still there but I was calm because I was no longer afraid he would exploit it. Control had been restored to me. A safe space had been created in the middle of the emotional minefield. For the time being at least I was preserved from bad decisions, unwise impulses and flea-brained behaviour which would leave me feeling even more trashed than I felt already.

  At last I said: “I’m so glad you’re back, Tucker. But it’s still such a war zone.”

  “Relax, Ms. G! Your trusty PA is here to give you moral, repeat moral, support.”

  I finally succeeded in launching us on our journey to the City.

  III

  We talked little on the journey because I sai
d I needed to concentrate on the task of driving in heavy traffic, but as soon as we reached the Vicarage we retired to the kitchen, a huge, dreary room which looked out on a blackened wall, and I began to relax. By mutual consent we passed up the vodka and opened a bottle of Chablis which Tucker found in the refrigerator. He also found various items from the food department of Marks and Spencer, the collection thoughtfully acquired with dinner for two in mind.

  “St. Gilbert’s been at work again,” said Tucker. “He’ll soon have to wear a neck-brace to support the halo.” Lighting the oven he started to read the instructions on the back of a package containing Cumberland pie.

  We were alone in the house. Gil had two lodgers, both theology students at King’s College in the Strand, but the long vacation had begun at London University and the students had returned to their homes in the provinces.

  While the food heated and I talked, the white wine disappeared, accompanied by liberal amounts of Perrier water, and by the time Tucker had finished cooking some vegetables, we had made the decision to switch to claret. “I know the weather’s really too hot for red wine,” said Tucker, “but Gil’s an oenophile. His friendly gay wine merchant gives him amazing stuff at a huge discount.”

  We ate. To my surprise I found I was hungry, and we both agreed that there was something very comforting about Marks and Spencer’s transformation of basic British fodder into a homegrown haute cuisine.

  After the main course we sampled some cheese as I continued to bring him up to date with all that had happened; fortunately, as I had now levelled with the police, I could even tell him about my ordeal at Oakshott. As a trained listener he never bombarded me with his own views and never passed judgement either on me or on anyone else, but eventually I found that this faultlessly professional behaviour made me want to scream with irritation.

  “Tucker, unless you put your cards on the table in twenty seconds and tell me what you really think,” I yelped at last, “I’m going to send you straight back to the Algarve to Ms. Grantly-Patterson!”

  Tucker was most alarmed. “But when I did my listening course, courtesy of the Acorn Trust, I was taught—”

  “Hey, you’re a great listener, the best, but right now I don’t want a St. Benet’s Befriender, I want a PA who’s not afraid to dish out some hard-headed opinions! So lay them on the line right now by telling me (a) what you think goes on with Kim, and (b) what the hell I should do next.”

  “I love it when you (a) and (b) me, Ms. G. Coffee?”

  “Yeah, and make it sugarless, black as pitch and strong enough to make an elephant levitate.”

  He laughed, delighted to be reminded of our office dialogues—and delighted too, perhaps, to see me finally regaining my equilibrium despite the stress of telling my story.

  Then he began to talk.

  IV

  “I’m sure you’ll make the necessary allowances for my prejudice,” said Tucker, “but to be honest, I thought Kim was a bastard. When he said: ‘I’m Mr. Betz to you, sonny,’ I wanted to shove my fist straight into his face, and when he stuck that knife into me I wasn’t too pleased either. But if I can now make a big effort to move beyond these obvious comments, I have to admit my first impression of him was that he was formidable, a real corporate bruiser. I’ve seen a number of corporate bruisers during my adventures as a PersonPower International serf, and I’m sure I have far more experience of this type of male than any of the St. Benet’s crew.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying Nick, Lewis, Robin and Val are naïve, but the trouble is that the Healing Centre deals primarily with the damaged. It’s just the same with a conventional medical practice. Most healthy people never go near a doctor, so the doctor’s experience is primarily with the unwell.

  “I think this syndrome lies at the root of what’s happening here—I think this is why every opinion you’ve received about Kim from the St. Benet’s crowd misses the mark. These people are great at what they do but they’re used to clients who could never even begin to function at Kim Betz’s level. I doubt if a real boardroom barracuda like Kim has ever swum into their orbit before.

  “Carter, surely the point about Kim is that he’s a survivor on the grand scale? Whatever happened to him in the past he survived it brilliantly, so brilliantly that he became a very high achiever. I’m sorry, but I just don’t believe Val and Nick’s theory that Kim has a—quote—‘fragile’ personality. That man’s about as fragile as an iron bar. You and I both know that high flyers don’t survive year after year in the heart of the City jungle unless they’re ten times smarter and tougher than anyone else on the block. How come a barracuda never winds up bitten in two? Because he always bites before he can be bitten.

  “And what does this mean? It means Kim’s capable of doing just about anything which will enable him to survive. He doesn’t have to be a psychopath. He’d know the difference between right and wrong, but when the chips were down morality would just become an irrelevance.

  “I don’t see him having any problem about leading a double life during the marriage to Sophie. If we assume that Sophie was an early version of the trophy wife who gave him the image he needed, I can see him being satisfied with her for years without loving her in the least. The satisfaction wouldn’t include sexual satisfaction, but that wouldn’t bother him—he’d slip into a double life as easily as I used to slip into that swimming-pool every day at the villa. Of course the VD disaster would have rocked him, but he’d smooth that over and go on as before. I mean, this is a real bruiser we’re talking about, a real barracuda! Survival’s his business, and that’s why in the end, when Sophie finally turned on him, he’d be prepared to go to any lengths to bust his way out of that tight corner.

  “Do I think he killed her? Sure, why not? She’d fulfilled her purpose anyway, and now his taste in trophy wives had changed. Was he going to let her get in his way? Hell, no! And I’m sure he reacted in just the same way to the blackmailer. Do I think he killed this man? You bet. If anyone asks to be liquidated it’s the fool who tries to blackmail Kim Betz. Oh, and incidentally I don’t believe the story that he was blackmailed for years and lost a huge chunk of capital. Boardroom barracudas don’t behave like doormats. They sharpen up their teeth and move in for the big bite. How do I explain the fact that Kim’s nowhere near as rich as he should be? That’s easy. He’s still got the money he ought to have—less a few thousands to Mother Mayfield—but it’s set aside in a numbered account in Switzerland in case he ever needs to make a quick getaway. Like father, like son.

  “So much for Sophie and the blackmailer. Now we come to you. It’s obvious you’re the new trophy wife, designed to show all those other corporate bruisers that he can still cut it with a gorgeous blonde despite the fact that he’s pushing fifty hard enough to break a wrist. But an additional bonus to Kim is your intelligence. I’ll bet he got so bored with Sophie’s ignorance of the legal scene, but now he doesn’t have to be bored any longer—and better still, he doesn’t need to waste time trawling elsewhere for sex. Life’s suddenly vivid, vital, vibrant! He’s really, really keen on this new trophy, so keen that he’s jealous as hell when she acquires a heterosexual male secretary for a couple of weeks. But is he actually keen on you—you—Carter Graham?

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The only person he cares about deep down is himself.

  “All right, I’ve shot my mouth off, I’m frothing with jealousy, I’m sweating loathing from every pore. But before you dismiss me as just another novelist who’s let his imagination run away with him, let me assure you that I know about people. I don’t know how I know, but I know that I do know. Lewis thinks it’s some idiot savant form of ESP. Nick thinks it’s the creative spark batting around in the unconscious. But whatever the explanation I can look at people with X-ray vision whenever I’m booted up and ready to go.

  “I’d just like to add a postscript by saying—or should I stop? Maybe I’ve handed out as much as you can take, and . . . okay, you want the postscript
straight up with no frills.

  “We all agreed my stabbing was an accident. We all agreed there was no way Kim could have foreseen that rapid sequence which resulted from Mother Mayfield’s freak-out. Lewis, who speaks German, told me that Mrs. Mayfield did call to Kim for help at the end, but he’d barely had the chance to react when I came flying at him like a cannon-ball. So of course we were all going to think the stabbing was entirely accidental— there was no time for it to be anything else . . . or was there?

  “The truth is there’s an alternative scenario tucked into that scene, and you’ll see it if you focus on Kim’s behaviour during that dialogue between Nick and Mrs. Mayfield. Do you remember that he made no contribution to the conversation and seemed to be acting like a zombie? The St. Benet’s crew, drawing on their experience of people with fragile personalities, leaped to the conclusion that he was in the first stage of a breakdown, but if you discard the theory that Kim’s a fragile little flower, you start to wonder what he was up to. I think he held on to the knife not because Mrs. Mayfield had converted him into a tame robot but because he’d decided to do me harm if he was lucky enough to get the chance to make it look like an accident—and obviously the first step to faking an accident was to start behaving like a zombie.

  “It’s even possible that Mrs. Mayfield colluded with this behaviour in order to make Nick believe Kim wasn’t dangerous. Maybe when she asserted to Nick that Kim belonged to her she was just hamming it up for the exorcist. After all, she and Kim started out as equal partners in that final scene—look how they worked together to get me to produce the files! That was quite a double act they had going there, and maybe they kept it going right up to the end.

  “Remember, Kim had picked up the chemistry between us. He even suspected us of sleeping together, and if he really thought I’d made a successful raid on his trophy, I reckon he’d yearn to liquidate me. At the very least he’d yearn for the chance to give me a non-fatal stab.