Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  Pouring a large vodka and tonic in his study by the front door, he wandered down to the kitchen. He found Davina sitting at the table with Mollie deep in conversation, which stopped when he entered. Mollie looked particularly unglamorous in a cycling jacket with fluorescent safety strips all over it, and a raw complexion from excess bicycling. On her feet were big galumphing boots with rubber heels.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Mollie, ‘I’ve come for supper.’

  ‘Bit of a cold night for a barbeque, isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Davina, are we really eating outside?’

  ‘No, of course not. Whatever made you ask that?’

  ‘Mollie’s attire. She’s dressed for outdoors. You look like a traffic policeman, Mollie. Can’t you remove that extraordinary jacket inside the house?’

  On the nights she was up in London, Davina brought with her from Chawbury various pre-prepared dishes made by Mrs French, fish pies and chicken stews which were quick to reheat and could easily be frozen if not required. One of the challenges of living with Miles was that he didn’t decide until the very last minute whether he would be in or out for dinner, and yet expected to be fed, and fed well, when at home. Davina’s solution was the pies and stews she or Conception could serve at thirty minutes notice, accompanied by vegetables from the Chawbury vegetable garden or from Kenya via Pendletons, whichever was more in season. Miles, endlessly contrary, was seldom happy. ‘If I’m given one more fish pie, I’m going to go mad,’ he’d say. ‘I had a very large lunch at the Ritz, I don’t need this stodgy food in the evening. Can’t we just have a simple slice of Parma ham and a piece of cheese?’ On other nights, he’d say, ‘For heaven’s sake, Davina, I had lunch at my desk, a tiny box of sushi. Can’t somebody—you, Conception, Mrs French, someone from this vast and expensive retinue of domestic staff you insist upon—prepare me some hot food? Is it really so much to ask?’ All these conflicting demands made Davina apprehensive, feeling she could never do anything right.

  ‘So what have you been up to since I last saw you, Mollie? Everything alright at the immigrants’ reception camp? Sorry, state-funded education system.’

  ‘It’s good. We’re starting on the new citizenship classes they’ve brought in. Teaching the kids about the benefits and obligations of being British.’

  Miles rolled his eyes. ‘That’s all we need. Teaching them about benefits and how to claim them, I expect. How to sign on.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s about taking pride in being British. The freedoms we have here, going right back to Magna Carta. Some of the children don’t know about them. They come from countries with less developed constitutions. Alan Milburn gave an amazing speech at the conference …’

  ‘Which conference? The Labour one? How come you were watching television in the middle of the afternoon?’

  ‘Actually, I was there,’ Mollie replied, instantly regretting it, because she hadn’t meant to tell him.

  ‘You were in Blackpool? Why? And with whom, may I ask? Since when did my daughter start hanging out at socialist conventions?’

  The cat out of the bag, Mollie found herself confessing about her trip with Greg, and what an inspiring time it had been hearing Tony Blair and Ken Livingstone and all their new schemes to improve the country and the world. As she spoke, she became aware of her father’s face turning to thunder.

  ‘And I suppose you knew about this, Davina?’ he asked when she’d finished. ‘Did you know Mollie was going to Blackpool with the fat Trotskyist Clegg boy? Tell me.’

  ‘Actually, darling, I did know, yes. Mollie did tell me. And I decided not to mention it because I thought you might react in this silly way.’

  ‘Ah, I see. So it’s a conspiracy? A conspiracy by mother and daughter against me? So that’s how you spend your time when I’m at work, hatching schemes to stop me knowing what’s going on in my children’s lives?’ Then another thought struck him. ‘I suppose you knew about Peter, too? He came to see me at my office, to tell me he’s leaving to become the new Bob Dylan. Did you know about that?’

  ‘Actually I did. He’s so excited, I’ve never seen him so happy. I told him he should tell you the news himself.’

  ‘And I told him exactly what I thought of it. Don’t you worry, I left him in no doubt about that. I’ve told him he’s a bloody fool, and banned him from living in this house. Either house. So you can tell Conception to pack up his stuff. And don’t forget the guitar, he’ll be needing that. For busking in the tube probably.’

  Then, turning on Davina, he said, ‘If you ask me, this whole family is going off the rails and you, Davina, aren’t helping. I will not have secrets kept from me. One after another, the children have been sneaking around behind my back. I’m talking to you, Mollie. You will never again attend a socialist jamboree without my express permission, is that understood? Think what would have happened if the press had got hold of it, they’d have had a field day. Miles Straker’s daughter turns New Labour. Samantha’s another one I’m not happy with at the moment. That’s why she’s banned from our house, houses. I hope you’re respecting that, Davina? I don’t want to discover she’s been coming round here, or you’ve been giving her money. So now two of our children are banned, Peter and Samantha. And I won’t hesitate to extend that to you, Mollie, if you continue in this way. The only one of my children I’m reasonably satisfied with is Archie. Archie is the only one of you with a brain in his head. That’s because he takes after me.’

  * * *

  It was at twenty past three in the morning, that same night, that Davina made the momentous decision to leave her husband.

  The argument at supper replayed in her head, and the more she pondered it the more indefensible Miles’s behaviour seemed. One by one he had fallen out with the children, always without cause, Davina felt, until two had been banished from the house, a third, Mollie, was crushed by his constant sarcasm, and even Archie was around very seldom these days. He hadn’t slept at Holland Park Square more than two nights in the past fortnight, and when she asked where he’d been, he was evasive. For the first time, Davina saw how pointless her life had become. Of course, she had recognised for a long time that her marriage was far from ideal. She had become accustomed to Miles’s mental bullying and chilly perfectionism. All this she put up with for the sake of the children, and because she found consolation in her garden and watercolours.

  But now she felt a line had been crossed. In alienating the children, he made their life together meaningless. What was the point of these ridiculous big houses with all their bedrooms, if they were to be empty? What was the point of the time and energy she put in to supporting Miles at his work things, if their family life was so dysfunctional? Davina had never especially admired Miles’s business, which she saw as shallow and superficial, but she recognised the satisfaction it gave him and the money it brought in to support the family. So she had done her best to be there at his side, whenever he’d asked, especially in the early days when he regularly took her with him to business conferences. Recently, there had been less of that. Miles said he preferred going alone to conferences without the distraction of a wife.

  She contrasted the gentle contentment of her parents’ marriage—and as a diplomat’s wife her mother had supported her father just as she supported Miles—with the hectic discontent of her own. She tried to remember what it was that had first attracted her to Miles, all those years ago, and realised it was the energy, the ambition, the brittle cleverness and fastidiousness … all the same qualities that now repelled her. She remembered him before he was successful—though, even then, you knew he was going to be successful—and the relentless way he had pursued her, sending flowers to her flat, inviting her to dinner night after night, collecting her in the Aston Martin he’d borrowed from a Piccadilly showroom. In those days, it was understood that Davina was a bit of a catch, the beautiful diplomat’s daughter with porcelain skin, and Miles the-young-man-on-the-make lucky to catch her. It was years, of course, since anyone thought of them in thos
e terms. Miles was the star now, Davina his non-working garden-loving wife.

  Often, she was afraid of her husband. Not physically afraid, but afraid of his caustic tongue, of his criticism when she failed to meet his standards. Had she always been? She felt she probably had, though she’d have phrased it differently in those early days. She’d have considered herself ‘in awe’ of him.

  Now, looking back over her marriage, she could see that awe had transformed first into anxiety, then timid dependency, so that everything they did in their lives—every decision—became Miles’s decision and his alone. Their choice of homes, holidays, the schools the children went to, all had been Miles’s decisions. If she wanted to buy a painting for the house, Miles had to see it first, to decide if he approved; if he wanted to buy one himself, he bought it. Half the paintings at Chawbury and Holland Park Square had been chosen by Miles alone and, though she was too loyal to say so, many were not good choices. Even the clothes she wore were scrutinised and vetoed by him.

  Having made her decision to leave him, Davina wondered what to do next. She could hear him snoring through the wall in the dressing room, to which he’d withdrawn to sulk following their argument. The prospect of life without Miles made her feel afraid; afraid of his reaction, and afraid for her future. Having been permitted to take so few decisions during their marriage, she began to worry whether she even knew how.

  Archie had as good as moved in to Roupell Street. Not officially, of course, but little by little his stuff migrated south across the river. After that first afternoon when he’d had Gemma on the sitting room floor, he’d taken to heading over to her gaff straight from the club, in the early hours. The first couple of times he’d leant against the bell and thumped on the door until she came down to let him in. After that, she gave him a key. The arrangement suited Archie very nicely. For a start, it was free sex on tap. And he had to admit, Gemma was surprisingly hot. This he attributed to five years of being cooped up in Chawbury like a nun in a convent, she was gagging for it. He found it rather a turn-on the way that, when Mandy was awake, Gemma was like this perfect, angelic mother, making jigsaw puzzles with her daughter on the floor, but later, when Mandy was down for her rest, she turned into this eager, melting sex babe. No question, she was fit. With her big blue eyes, above-average legs and baby-soft skin, Archie reckoned she was a definite 8, maybe even an 8.5. Only her plump ankles let her down.

  Life in Roupell Street suited him too, in ways he couldn’t have anticipated. For a start there was no Carmelita on his case all day, badgering him to get up before lunchtime because she wanted to do his room, or vacuuming right outside and thumping the nozzle against his door, waking him when he needed his sleep. Gemma never disturbed him in the mornings. He’d let himself in at three or four a.m., climb into her bed, shake her awake if he fancied some of it, then doss down until mid afternoon. She was great too at delivering brunch in bed on a tray, and his clothes from Thurloes were put through the wash and ironed, and his jacket hung up by the bathroom window to air the fag smells out. As far as service was concerned, he had no complaints.

  Obviously he couldn’t tell anyone at home he was seeing Gemma, and certainly not Miles. Archie had no illusions how he’d react if he found out, and there were ever present dangers of a leak. His mum and Gemma’s mum did yoga together, and were always bumping into each other in Chawbury, so Gemma had to be sworn to secrecy, which she didn’t like, but agreed when Archie insisted. Ever since he’d reappeared in her life, Gemma had felt perpetually joyful, reunited with Mandy’s dad, seeing herself at last at the heart of a proper little family. In all those years as a single mother in Chawbury she’d hoped against hope Archie would come back; slowly that hope diminished, then died. But now—a miracle. She longed to broadcast the news, to tell everyone, all her friends that she and Archie were an item and furthermore—guess what?—he was Mandy’s dad all along. She didn’t get why he needed to be so secretive, but she daren’t risk jeopardising what they had.

  * * *

  Davina took a deep breath and, telling nobody, called on a firm of divorce lawyers in Lincolns’ Inn Fields. All the way there in the taxi she felt uneasy, in case anyone should see her. She had emphasised when she rang up that this was only an exploratory meeting, she hadn’t decided anything, and it all had to remain completely confidential. ‘Of course, Mrs Straker, that’s perfectly normal and understood, Mrs Straker.’ Davina wished they didn’t keep using her name, it made her anxious.

  In the event, she met up with a sympathetic female divorce solicitor, along with a keen young trainee taking notes, who put her under no pressure but asked a lot of questions about how long they’d been married and how many children they had, and where they lived and whether they were domiciled in the UK. The solicitor, Angela Strawbetter, seemed more than satisfied by the information, nodding at the seven bedroom house with staff accommodation in Holland Park Square, and Chawbury Manor in Hampshire with its sixty acres of paddocks and parkland, swimming pool and tennis court. When Davina mentioned her husband was chairman and chief executive of a PR and corporate image consultancy, Angela nodded knowingly, having already carried out a ‘conflict search’ on the Strakers, following Davina’s initial call.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone I’ve been to see you,’ Davina said nervously. ‘He’d be furious if he knew I was here.’

  Angela was reassuring and asked more questions, such as what were the grounds for the divorce (‘not that you need grounds these days, marital breakdown is quite enough but unreasonable behaviour is even better’). Then she asked which schools the children had attended, how much domestic help they kept in both houses, any animals? ‘Three horses and a pony,’ Davina replied. And would Mrs Straker say she’d supported her husband in creating his business, had she attended business dinners and functions with him over the years? Had she given up a career? Did she have any wealth at the time of the marriage?

  ‘Well, yes,’ Davina replied uncertainly. ‘He does sometimes take me to lovely dinners with his clients. But I can’t really say I’ve done much to build up the company. That was all Miles.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t dismiss the part you played in making it possible, Mrs Straker,’ said Angela. ‘If you hadn’t been there managing the houses and running round after him and taking responsibility for the children, he couldn’t have done it at all, could he?’ Then she asked, ‘Are all your assets in joint names, do you know, and do you have joint or separate bank accounts?’

  ‘Separate. Well, we have a joint one for domestic bills and all the everyday stuff, and for my clothes and hairdressing etcetera, not that I’m extravagant about that sort of thing, it doesn’t really interest me actually. If I wasn’t with Miles, I’d spend even less. And Miles has his own bank accounts too, I think. To be absolutely honest, I don’t know. He’s always looked after the money side, that’s always been his area.’

  ‘If you do decide to go ahead, we can take care of all that for you. The crucial thing is to establish the size of the family pot. The statement of assets is fairly standard: property, investments, pensions and so on.’

  ‘I want to make it clear I wouldn’t want to ask Miles for too much,’ Davina said. ‘It was him who made all the money. A little flat or a cottage somewhere, that’s all I need. Somewhere with a couple of spare bedrooms so the children can come and visit.’

  Angela smiled a patronising smile. ‘You’d be surprised, Mrs Straker, by how many of the wives say that when they first come and see me. The nice wives that is, not the grabby ones. And I can tell you’re one of the nice ones. But I always advise them not to settle too easily. After all, you only have one chance, and you never know what might happen in the future, do you? If you don’t take sufficient from the marriage you may find yourself severely disadvantaged, if you don’t have a comparable lifestyle to the father. If your husband remains in Holland Park and Chawbury Manor, and you end up in some pokey cottage, it’s unlikely your children will gravitate towards you with their friends in th
e holidays. Those are the things to think about. I always ask my clients to think very long term, like what happens when you want to entertain your grandchildren.’ Then she said, ‘So if you do decide to proceed, let me know, we’d be delighted to represent you, and we’ll hold your hand all the way. And of course we’ll need to explain our standard terms and conditions and schedule of payments, so you always know exactly where you are with your planning.’

  49.

  ‘You see the rocks on the headland? That’s Strathy Point,’ Peter told her. ‘And the islands on the horizon, you can just make them out? The Orkneys. Beyond that, nothing but sea till you hit Norway.’

  Peter collected Sam from Wick airport and was driving her along the top of Scotland, following the single track coast road to the whitewashed crofter’s cottage he’d leased to write music. He had chosen it as the remotest place in which he could find a short let in mainland Britain, nine miles from the nearest shop, in a hamlet of stone dwellings overlooking the wild Atlantic. The cottage stood a little apart from the others, elevated on a bank above the road. From the windows the view was only of sand dunes sprouting with sea kale and steel grey ocean beyond.

  ‘Yes, I’d say this was fairly … isolated. I think you can say that,’ Sam said, as Peter bumped the car onto the grassy parking place beside the croft.

  ‘If you’re hoping for nightclubs, you’re going to be disappointed. The nearest is probably in Scrabster, forty miles. And you wouldn’t like it, so don’t ask.’

  Sam laughed. ‘I’m so over with all that. I wouldn’t care if I never went to another club in my life. I don’t want to see anyone, speak to anyone.’