‘Well, all right, sorry—oh, God, what have I said?’
Barbara had started to cry again. ‘You don’t understand,’ she sobbed. ‘Alex isn’t like that, he—’ Alex is entirely truthful and entirely honourable. How did she know this? It was true nonetheless. It was true.
‘All right, I believe you; please don’t cry.’ Zoë gave her another tissue. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘That’s better. See,’ she went on, as gently as she could, ‘even if he believes he’s got to stay put, I mean, fair dinkum, even then—he could be wrong, you know. I mean, if him and his wife have gone so cold on each other—well, what sort of an example of adult relationships is that for two impressionable kids? For another—what is it—five years? Four? Whatever. Ye gods. So. This Alex. I don’t suppose it’s occurred to him that the kids might actually be better off with him and his wife living apart, has it? It has been known, you know. God, we know dozens of divorced parents—kids thriving—no one bothers about that stuff these days: there are worse things to worry about, believe me.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But it’s just—it wasn’t for me to urge that point, you see.’
‘Oh, wasn’t it?’
‘No, truly it wasn’t.’
Zoë was silent, half-exasperated, half-dumbfounded; Barbara sat, staring in miserable reminiscence at her hands as they folded another tissue into ever-tinier squares. ‘Well,’ said Zoë at last, ‘that seems to leave only one alternative then, which is for you two to be lovers. Go for it, Barbie-doll. You’ve earned it.’
Barbara almost smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘What’s the problem then?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’
‘I can’t. We can’t. Oh, I suppose Alex would be happy enough— for a while, at any rate. But even then—you see—’ and Barbara made a huge effort, looking up, looking into Zoë’s eyes, straining as never before to articulate the entire truth: ‘you see,’ she said, ‘it just wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t be good enough, it would be unworthy. The deception, the secrecy, the untruth of it—it wouldn’t be what we are, it wouldn’t be good.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘I’m sorry’
‘You English.’
‘Oh, no—it’s not we English—it’s just me. Most of the English would agree with you, I dare say. I don’t know.’
‘All the same. Oh, God. Look—do you love this guy, or don’t you?’
Barbara looked at Zoë again. ‘Love,’ she repeated. ‘Well— obviously—but you see: what I think is, that you have to find out what it means, as time goes on—I mean, you start with one thing, but it keeps changing. And that’s just it, you see: we wouldn’t find out—it might even stop being love altogether—if we had this secret relationship; if we were deceiving other people by having the relationship at all—it wouldn’t, actually, be real. It wouldn’t be the real thing. It wouldn’t really be love.’
‘This is probably too metaphysical for me.’
Barbara looked downwards in misery. ‘It’s just the way I am,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can see it probably looks stupid. It probably is stupid.’
Tears started to roll down her cheeks again. Zoë, feeling a genuine and even profound pity, put her arms around the girl. ‘Perhaps it’ll work itself out, somehow,’ she said. ‘You’ve just gotta keep the faith, babe.’
‘Yes,’ said Barbara, crying silently. ‘Yes, perhaps it will.’ She wiped her eyes. She had spoken bravely, without hope—for it was time to release her confidante. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I must look for something to do. That’s the immediate problem—I see that now. I mean, it’s been wonderful—India and everything—I’ve been so lucky, truly—Gideon, and Charles, and you and Bazza—but—I have to do something.’
‘Well, you will.’
‘It’s just a matter of deciding what.’
‘No problem.’
Barbara could almost have believed her. She managed a glimmering smile. ‘No,’ she bravely, but hopelessly, agreed. ‘None. Oh, God.’ Zoë patted her shoulder encouragingly, while Barbara wiped away the last traces of her tears. She looked up again at Zoë. ‘Isn’t it strange,’ she said, ‘the way we always say that? Oh, God: you’d think we actually meant it.’
‘Don’t we?’
Barbara looked at her, startled. Zoë, a believer?
‘Only joking,’ said Zoë.
‘Oh,’ said Barbara. ‘Yes, of course. Silly me.’
‘Yeah. Silly you. Say, what about a cuppa? A nice cuppa, and a nice spliff.’
‘Wouldn’t say no to that.’
‘Yer on then!’
Barbara followed Zoë downstairs, through the endless-seeming darkness, bravely and without hope; Oh, God, she said to herself, God help me. And that was when she saw it. She was almost winded with the shock—it was like being suddenly knocked over, right off one’s feet. She began to laugh: she was laughing so much that she had to sit down, helpless, and lean her head on the kitchen table.
‘Good God,’ said Zoë, ‘what is it now?’
Barbara laughed even harder, then at last she looked up. ‘I’ve just seen it,’ she cried. ‘God! He does exist!’
‘She,’ said Zoë.
‘Whatever,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s that person, that thing, that’s there when you say Oh, God. There’d have to be something there, actually there, or you couldn’t say it, could you? You couldn’t.’
‘I reckon not.’
Zoë began to laugh too, and that’s how the Bazza found them when he came in: laughing their heads off. ‘What’s going on here?’ he said.
‘Barbara’s just found God.’
‘No, God found me.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Is it?’
‘Has to be.’
Bazza started laughing too: they all, all three of them, had a jolly good laugh. It was absolutely the funniest thing that had happened for an age. God!
47
Lizzie Ainsworth (who was a television producer) had run into Simon Beaufort (who was a television director) down at the Beeb, and on learning that his wife and children had all gone off to the Périgord without him (he having been detained in London by work, contrary to the original plan) had asked him round for a meal; this done, she had invited Alex to join them—‘Poor old Alex,’ she explained to Alfred. ‘I mean, there he is, rattling around in that enormous house, summer after summer, while Claire and the kids lark about on a French beach—might as well give the poor old darling a square meal while it’s going.’
‘Poor old Alex,’ said Alfred, ‘is probably glad to be rid of Claire for a bit. Probably perfectly happy, actually, even if he misses the kids, which I wouldn’t assume.’
‘All the same,’ said Lizzie. ‘Poor old Alex. Poor old Claire, come to that—poor old things, both of them. Rotten luck.’
‘They might as well get divorced, really,’ said Alfred, uncorking a bottle of white wine.
‘They can’t, they’re staying together for the children; at any rate until Percy’s at Winchester.’
‘Westminster.’
‘Whatever: still a long way off.’
‘What a horlicks, eh?’ Alfred poured out some wine and tasted it.
‘Poor Claire,’ sighed Lizzie, with genuine feeling.
‘Poor fiddlesticks,’ said Alfred. ‘She’s probably having it off with some novelist on her free afternoons. It’s Alex I’m sorry for.’
‘Alex could be in the same boat, of course,’ said Lizzie. Hardly were the words out of her mouth when the doorbell rang. ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘That’ll probably be him now.’
Alex’s appearance, having precluded further speculation about his love life, might also seem to obviate it: Alex certainly had nothing of the aspect of the lover. He had—as generally—that look, both weary and feral, of the man who has no partner. Still attractive, too, thought Lizzie. Doesn’t even need much cleaning up. Poor darling. She kissed his weary, feral cheek. He smelt all right too. He handed her a bottle of Margaux.
‘You poppet,’ said Lizzie; Alex gave her a brief smile which might have melted a stonier heart. ‘Well now,’ said Lizzie, almost disconcerted; ‘what will you have to drink?’
Simon Beaufort arrived twenty minutes later with a bottle of Graves which they opened to drink with the meal, which was almost ready; at last they sat down.
First they talked about Alex’s black economy book, due to be published in the autumn. ‘Giving it all they’ve got, are they?’ asked Simon.
‘It’s getting a launch party,’ said Alex.
‘Oh, where?’
‘White’s.’
‘What a joke. Who’s coming?’
‘All of you, I hope.’
‘Naturally. Anyone else?’
‘The Chancellor may put his head around the door for a moment or two.’
‘Never!’
‘So the rumour goes. His PPS is not unhopeful.’
‘What a riot, I can’t wait. I must have a new dress.’
‘Must you?’
‘Alf, darling, don’t be a killjoy. I’ll pay for it myself.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to.’
Alex thought it time to divert the conversation from his own concerns and turned to Simon. ‘What exactly are you up to these days?’ he said.
Simon told him, and the talk became rather shoppy.
‘I tell you what, though,’ said Simon, suddenly remembering, ‘I saw that Gideon fellow the other day—your brother, isn’t he, Alf?’
‘Alas, yes.’
‘Just listen to him! Poor Alf. “Alas” indeed. Where did you see him, Simon?’
‘In a restaurant. Which one could it have been, now? One of those places.’
‘Ah, les restaurants de Londres.’
‘I remember who he was with, though, he was with that Emma Whatsit—you know—that agent, the one they call The Fox. And a BBC producer I vaguely recognised.’
‘Well, I must say that takes the biscuit—as far as we’re concerned the villain is meant to be holed up virtually incommunicado in the cottage in Dorset writing his absurd book.’
‘Don’t be silly, Alf, he’s almost finished that. He’d just buzzed up to town for the day, obviously. In fact, I think I know why.’
‘Well, I wish you’d tell me. Not that I care, one way or another. But it is my cottage.’
‘Or, as it were, ours. Yes, this is a most material point. He has no right, having borrowed it—’
‘Exactly: borrowed, you notice. Not rented.’
‘—having borrowed it, to leave it for a whole day without telling us.’
‘Well, you know what I mean. Here he is, in London after all, not a word to us—’
Lizzie threw up her hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said despairingly to Alex and Simon. ‘Ever since his wastrel younger brother whom he never tired of excoriating became a decent respectable media star Alfred has been in a perfect tizzy. His exasperation has, if anything, actually increased. Behold, the relentless logic of the legal mind.’
‘Well, it’s all so utterly spurious,’ said Alfred. ‘Not to say, completely unreal. All this fame and success. It’s not as if he’s had to work for it.’
At this, they all (except Alfred) howled with laughter. ‘How true!’ they cried. ‘How terribly true!’
‘Anyway,’ said Lizzie, recovering herself, ‘I’ll tell you why he was in that restaurant with The Fox and that producer—I think I know which one it was, too—it’s because he’s probably going to be doing a new series for the Beeb.’
‘Now I’ve heard everything!’
‘No kidding.’
‘Some sort of travel thing?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Do we actually want another travel thing?’
‘Look at those we already have and I think the answer may come up before you in bright shining lights.’
‘That’s what Gideon is after. His name in bright shining lights.’
‘Don’t take any notice of Alf. Yes, it sounds quite good: sort of video diaryish, but more structured—obviously—a sort of independent travellers’ guide, but all shot on the hoof, so to speak.’
‘Could be classy.’
‘Just one major little problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They need a girl. Or, you know, a woman.’
‘Plenty of those. Should be able to find one.’
‘Yes, but Gideon’s rather keen to have one in particular.’
‘Oh, is he? Well, a TV contract beats a box of Milk Tray any day.’
‘Depends on the woman, I would have thought.’
‘That’s my Alfred. You’d swear he was serious, wouldn’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘No, but tell us, Lizzie—who’s the particular girl Gideon wants?’
Thus Simon. Alex sat dumbly, holding the stem of his glass, unable even to eat, looking down at the tablecloth. It had a pattern of thick blue and thin red stripes on a white ground. He thought he would never forget it. He knew—he had been seized by a chilling prescience, a mutation of the cold horror which had entered him as soon as Gideon’s name had first been mentioned—what was to come.
‘Yes, he wants that girl Barbara, the one he went to India with,’ said Lizzie. ‘You remember—did you see the video diary?’
‘Oh, of course. Barbara. Now which was she—the sylph, or the rather more voluptuous type?’
‘The latter.’
‘Hmmm. Could she do it?’
‘Something of a moot point, as she’s presently in Australia.’
‘Does Gideon want this show or doesn’t he?’
‘I understand that as soon as he’s got their agreement in principle he’ll put the hard word on her to get herself back here pronto and strut her stuff.’
‘Perhaps she’d rather have the Milk Tray, after all.’
‘Not if she knows what’s good for her.’
‘Can’t see how Gideon could be good for anyone, with or without a box of Milk Tray up front,’ said Alfred.
‘Ah, well,’ said Lizzie.
‘Nell thinks he’s fabulous,’ said Simon. His younger daughter Nell was nine years old. ‘She’s got a picture of him on her wardrobe door—I see it every time I go in to kiss her good night; no wonder I recognised him in that restaurant.’
‘The thing is,’ said Lizzie, ‘speaking as a pro, I do think that Barbara girl could have something as a presenter. Huge novelty, for a start. She’s so authentic. And she’s certainly attractive enough—rather gorgeous, really, in her way. They can do something about the clothes and so on. It’s just a question of whether she can do the business.’
‘Well, someone had better remind Gideon about the story of Citizen Kane and that singer creature.’
‘Or the other way around.’
‘No, no, I tell you—it isn’t like that. At least I don’t think so. No, Gideon genuinely a thinks she can do it and b equally to the point believes they work. As a team. The chemistry is right.’
‘Ah, chemistry.’
‘No, not that chemistry. Ye gods, you men—’
Well, Simon, actually. Alfred and Alex had both remained more or less silent: Alex wholly so. In fact, he must speak soon or his silence might begin to seem significant. ‘I should think he knows best,’ he said. ‘After all, he’s spent a lot of time with her, going to India, and then all around it. Must know her pretty well.’
Brave, brave Alex; and no one there to know it: no one, anywhere.
‘Just so,’ said Lizzie.
‘That has to be right,’ said Simon.
‘And she him,’ said Alfred, drily. ‘I dare say she’ll turn him down, in the event.’
‘Oh, I don’t know so much,’ said Lizzie. ‘She hasn’t got a lot else to do, from all one can gather. Anyway, we’ll see.’
At this moment naughty Henrietta, who was meant to be asleep, came into the room in her crumpled nightdress, blinking in the light and asking for water—that ancient ruse—and by the time
she was dealt with the topic had changed altogether. Alex was out of danger. In extremis, but out of all danger.
All danger; all delight; all hope—yes; yes: that (now he saw it clearly) was the place he’d come to, again—now, when the knowledge was, just, endurable. Barbara would not, and could not, wait for him—even if he could (as of course he could) wait for her. He might hope no longer, if he had not stopped hoping already. He had returned—could anything be more cruel, more absurd?—to the dull stony place he’d inhabited before that Carrington party—or its aftermath—of a year ago. Welcome, summer, with your green leaves, your deserts. He was conscious of a silence and looked up. Alfred was offering more wine. Yes, he might as well get soaked; he wasn’t driving. ‘They want me to do another book,’ he announced. ‘About the Lloyd’s thing.’
‘Oh, well done. Have you said yes?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘You really might as well, why not.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. Why not? Got to keep busy.’
Oh, God, thought Lizzie, poor old Alex. It just isn’t fair.
She said as much to Alfred after their guests had departed. ‘When you think,’ she said, ‘that Louisa and Robert actually met each other at Claire and Alex’s wedding—which they wouldn’t have done, otherwise. And look how happy they are. Whereas Claire and Alex, the cause of their happiness—as it were—are not happy themselves. It really is so unfair.’
‘Well, now you know all about life,’ said Alfred. ‘It’s unfair. And talking of that, how do you come to know so much about Gideon’s present circumstances, of which you haven’t mentioned one word to me? I knew nothing about this new television program.’
‘Oh, I hear things on the street,’ said Lizzie. ‘And anyway, I spoke to him on the phone the other day.’
‘You never told me.’
‘I didn’t want to annoy you unnecessarily.’
‘Huh.’ Alfred sighed. ‘Gideon,’ he muttered to himself. ‘When I think.’
‘The thing is,’ said Lizzie, ‘I do think it would be nice if you could be a bit pleased for Gideon. Or about him. Or both.’
Alfred considered this proposition. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m pleased, of course. Pleased enough. As pleased as is warranted. But honestly, Lizzie—the rest of you, not to say tout le monde, seem so inordinately pleased with Gideon that—good God—I mean—there he is: hasn’t lifted a finger, properly speaking, except in pursuit of the devices and desires of his own heart, with the result that he’s got you all dancing around him like courtiers—The Fox, Auntie Beeb, Times, Telegraph and Guardian—what a shenanigans—all I can say is, it just seems to me absurdly unfair.’
A Stairway to Paradise Page 11