‘Some time the week after next. Just a quick in and out, we’re cramming everything in.’
‘Can I get down?’ Lily said, seeming to sense the strain. ‘Can we play Pelmanism?’
William had taught her, so he had no out. Nattie played as well, with Thomas shushing the cards about and causing chaos. Hugo carried him off into the garden.
He’d cut the grass that morning, its last cut most likely, and it smelled fresh and new-mown. He sighed, just as Victoria came out to join him and play with Thomas. She sat on the pocket-handkerchief lawn in her neat navy jeans, hugging her knees, freeing a hand now and then to roll a beach ball to her chubby smiling grandson. Hugo helped to roll it back, psyching himself up to ask about coming to see her.
‘I’m worried about Nattie,’ Victoria said, when Thomas had tired of the ball game and tottered off to his sit-in car. ‘I feel very diffident asking this, Hugo, but I just wondered if you knew what was wrong. Tell me off if I’m interfering.’
‘The opposite,’ he said, extremely glad to have his opening. ‘Things have been a bit difficult. I’ve, um, wondered if I could come over, ask your advice. I know how busy you are, though, and I hate to bother you.’
‘Of course, do come, I’m pleased you asked. Let’s find a time right now.’ Victoria reached into a back pocket for her phone, which she consulted with a frown. ‘How’s Wednesday? I’m working from home till two.’
Hugo had no lunch date, he was sure. ‘I could be with you by half twelve or a bit after. But please don’t do anything about food, certainly not on my account.’
On Tuesday Victoria decided to walk home from a meeting in the House of Lords; it was too beautiful an afternoon to take the bus. She started off over Westminster Bridge, enjoying the view of the London Eye with its lightness and delicacy of construction. She walked beside the river in the other direction feeling cheered and less worried, and turned down Lambeth Road.
She crossed at traffic lights and waited to cross again to the far side of Kennington Road, which was more open and sunny. As the Lambeth Road traffic started up she happened to notice a couple in a black car in the slow flow of vehicles going into town. The car moved on, she’d only had a fleeting look, but the girl had been Nattie for sure. She’d been in profile, leaning forward, making it hard to see the driver, but Victoria was in no doubt. She knew her own daughter.
She felt shivery and disturbed. The man had been dark-haired. It could have been anyone: a colleague at work, an author Nattie was interviewing – even Tom, whose studio was only down the road. But Tom had a Mini Cooper. Could it possibly have been Ahmed? Surely not.
Should she say anything about it to Nattie? A casual mention, a comment about seeing a girl in a car who was Nattie’s absolute image? Or be more upfront and say she’d happened to catch a glimpse of her on Tuesday late afternoon – at traffic lights on Lambeth Road? If it had been Ahmed, Nattie would almost certainly give herself away. Victoria couldn’t bear to think of the fallout; to be setting traps, putting her daughter on the spot like the cross-examining barrister she once was. There were sensitivities enough, it could only add to them.
Reaching home she went inside, feeling in urgent need of a cup of tea. Standing in her big bright kitchen, she felt calmer; and with a mug of tea in her hands, sipping it as she looked out into the back garden, at the climber-clad frames, the tumbling cottage-garden profusion, all William’s clever planting, she felt she had things more in perspective.
Hugo was coming the next day. Best not to say anything about seeing Nattie. Let him do the talking, ask questions and give gentle prompts. It must have taken a lot for him to pluck up the courage to ask to see her, which was worrying enough. Victoria hoped it was all making a storm out of a breeze, but the odds on that weren’t looking good.
William would have his usual strong ideas and whether or not she agreed with them she always valued his input. She hadn’t got round to mentioning Hugo’s visit; he wasn’t good at seeing things from her son-in-law’s point of view and there had seemed no great rush. Now, however, she was desperate to tell William all, most especially about seeing Nattie. She longed to hear him snort and say the idea of the man in the car being Ahmed was as far-fetched as they came, but much as he’d kept quiet about it she knew he had always anticipated Ahmed’s return.
William was late back and they had to rush out to a fundraising dinner. It was for a colleague’s charity; she was doing a favour and felt guilty, dragging William along. The evening turned out to be as heavy duty as she had feared. Victoria could see how crotchety and irritable William was getting and felt that any serious discussion would have to wait till morning.
They always tried to have breakfast together, to talk and share plans and she knew that after his Weetabix and toast he’d be clear-headed and in a more receptive mood.
And so he was. He listened keenly. ‘Ask Hugo straight out if he thinks Nattie’s having an affair. If he does, I’d be willing to bet the house on it being Ahmed in that car. Bad news for poor old Hugo.’
‘Don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it then, will you!’ Victoria felt furious.
She pushed back her chair and clomped about, clearing away the breakfast in silence. Not only cheerful, bloody callous, she thought. How could he toss off an aside like that when there was a marriage at stake? Ahmed had been incredibly brave and they owed him their lives; her movements as Home Secretary had been known, she the primary target of a bomb designed to cause maximum devastation. He and Nattie had been deeply in love, no question – but that was in the past. Fate hadn’t worked out for them.
William rose and came to make amends. ‘Look, sorry, don’t get excited. It’s all surmise anyway right now. We don’t know it was Ahmed in that car. But, darling, you have to face it, Nattie’s fine with Hugo, loving, very fond of him, but it’s a different sort of relationship. She was always going to be vulnerable. She may even have fallen for someone else. Who knows? But if Ahmed’s back she’ll be torn apart and finding it unbelievably hard to cope.’
He touched Victoria’s cheek. ‘I must be off. Find out what you can from Hugo and I’ll talk to Nattie if you like – probably better coming from me. I’m sure if I ask her straight out, she’ll tell me honestly. It’s the way she’s built.’
William kissed her. ‘Good luck with Hugo. Call any time.’
‘Thanks – and about talking to Nattie.’
Victoria watched him out of the gate and went back indoors. The emails were piling in, files of papers on her desk to be tackled. What would Nattie do? Surely not walk out on Hugo who loved her so much, who’d always been so good and kind. And what about Lily and Thomas? Victoria felt in despair. A child could bring such wonderful sunlight, but at that moment Nattie’s sun seemed to be in total eclipse. She wanted only happiness for her beloved child.
Hugo walked briskly from the tube station to Kennington Road feeling harassed by the traffic, the petrol and diesel fumes, all the inner-city grime. His nausea was back, sickly bile swilling into his mouth that he had to swallow down. Should he see a doctor? It was lowering enough to be on his way to cry on his mother-in-law’s shoulder without feeling physically debilitated.
He was in a state of panic about what to say. And what could Victoria give back other than platitudes? Wouldn’t she instinctively want to defend Nattie? But he had no one else to talk to, no one as sensitive, no one who knew about Ahmed. Hugo’s oldest and closest friend, the only other person he could have trusted, was living in America. They’d taken different paths, Patrick to Harvard, New York and moneymaking; he, the road of coke, heroin and near destruction. But he hadn’t needed to confide in anyone before now; he’d had Nattie.
Hugo walked on, lost in his dark emotions. It was a whole month since that night at his parents’. Nattie had been friendly, never sarky, but never once had she let him near her. Was he about to lose her completely? He felt powerless, atrophied, encased in ice. He couldn’t wield sexual power like Shelby, who’d walked off with her
in those long-ago days before Ahmed. She’d been infatuated with Shelby, but that hadn’t lasted, not like her love for Ahmed.
Shelby had a lot to answer for, not least weaning Hugo onto drugs, yet they’d weirdly hit it off. Shelby buttering him up, as lavishly flattering as a chancer, but Hugo had needed that. The sweet-talking had been as comforting as a hot-water bottle, balm for his ills. Weirdly, Shelby had called up the other day – how he’d had Hugo’s mobile number was hard to know – and said they must meet. ‘You’ve got my number now, and I’ll text you an email address. Give me a bell sometime. Let’s have a drink.’
Shelby had done time for his dealing; he’d be out of all that, not pressing drugs, surely. Hugo was tempted to take him up on the offer.
Victoria opened the door, smiling and welcoming. ‘Come on in. Come and have a glass of something – wine, elderflower, Perrier?’
Hugo relaxed a little. ‘That last sounds good. I’ve just walked at a fair trot from the tube.’ His mother-in-law was dressed for her afternoon meetings: cream shirt, dove-grey skirt, her suit jacket ready on a hall chair. ‘It’s really kind of you to spare the time,’ he said, staying by the kitchen door while she got a bottle of Perrier. He followed as she led the way into the sitting room. ‘I’ve just been feeling so worried.’
‘So have I. I’m glad to have this chat. I felt anxious when Nattie and I had lunch a couple of weeks ago, I felt she was holding something back then. It’s hard to know what, though.’
Victoria sat down on the sofa. Hugo sat opposite, grateful for the glass of water she handed over. It would help with his nausea. There was a dish of sandwiches on the glass coffee table; side plates, napkins. ‘Smoked salmon,’ she said, following his glance. ‘We have to eat.’
She took a sip of water and sat back. ‘Where do we start? Do you know what’s the trouble?’
‘I think Nattie’s seeing someone,’ Hugo said, not quite believing he’d come right out with it, his worst fears exposed. Saying it out loud brought a momentary sense of release before the full significance hit home. It couldn’t be true, please God.
He looked down at his knees, rubbing his forehead, before straightening up and battling on. ‘It’s terribly difficult this, but we’re living under a sort of cloud. She won’t let me near her and my obvious suspicion isn’t helping. She’s been late back more than once. I’ve called, spoken to Jasmine, and the other evening when I was home early, Nattie seemed alarmed when she returned. She was out when I called her on the office phone too, and the guy she sits opposite was kind of furtive about where he thought she’d gone. I don’t know whether to ask her outright or let things ride.’
He looked at Victoria with pleading eyes. ‘I know there’s really nothing you can do,’ he added, feeling a sudden, overwhelming sense of disloyalty to his wife.
‘I suppose,’ Victoria said, considering, taking her time, ‘I should ask if you’ve any real proof – but then, when you love someone as I know you do Nattie, it’s impossible not to have a strong sense of these things. My advice, for what it’s worth, is not to ask her straight out. There’s no going back after that. You don’t want to bounce her into saying or doing anything you’d both regret. Just suppose you’re right and she is in some . . . emotional situation, it could be that all she needs is the time to try to resolve things. Or it could run its course. I’m sure she’d tell me if she were about to take any fundamental step. There’s only one area where we don’t—’
‘Ahmed?’ Hugo cut in. He couldn’t help himself.
Victoria shot him a glance. ‘Well, yes. If by any chance she’s in touch again or has some link to Ahmed, she wouldn’t find it easy to talk to me – as I think you know.’
Hugo felt he’d put her on the defensive. She was right, he was well aware of the tensions over Ahmed, but too preoccupied and self-obsessed to try to help with her embarrassment over it. Victoria’s relationship with her daughter was her own affair.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘William could have a word. Nattie would never lie to him, and if there has been any development or um, contact, it might help her to talk. Nattie’s close to William, she’d trust him with a confidence.’
Hugo swallowed and had to look away. Victoria must know something. He blinked, found some control and turned back.
She met his eyes with a steady, understanding gaze. ‘William could advise Nattie if she needs advice. She may be in some difficulty and not sure who to tell, what to do.’
Hugo stared. No softening of the pill. His heart was thundering, like as a galloping horse with the panic he was in. ‘You’d tell me . . . any news?’
‘Of course – as long as I’m told myself!’ She smiled, though it was clear she was still deeply pained by Nattie’s continued resentment. She must yearn for her daughter to forgive her misgivings over Ahmed during the bomb-plot threat in her Home Secretary days.
Victoria’s smile lit up her face just as Nattie’s smiles did. ‘We should eat,’ she said. ‘Have a couple of sandwiches, Hugo; I’m going to. And what we need, I think, is a nice glass of cold white wine.’
She went to a bar fridge behind a cupboard door and came back with a chilled bottle of Sancerre. He was grateful; he badly needed a drink.
‘It’s next week you’re going away, isn’t it?’ she said, ‘Bosphor Air? Good luck with that. I’ll look in on Nattie and be around. She mentioned at the weekend that you’re having a little dinner party this week and that Tom’s coming. Pair him up with someone nice, Hugo. He’s a worry of mine, too.’
He wasn’t one of Hugo’s, but he knew how close she was to Tom; he was her stepson, but she thought of him almost as her own. ‘It’s that girl in his life, that doctor, Imogen,’ Victoria confessed. ‘She’s not right for him, he doesn’t truly love her.’
Was she trying to take his mind off his own worries? She wasn’t succeeding. Victoria looked at her watch. Hugo had already looked at his; he was feeling a desperate need to go, to be alone, get away, curl up and die.
She came to the door with him, waving aside his effusive thanks. Looking at her, seeing the caring in her wide beautiful eyes, he wanted to cling, bury his head in her chest and sob. He hovered a minute on the step. ‘You’ll let me know if William . . . if there are any developments?’
‘Of course. I have your mobile number and you can call me any time.’
He thanked her again, brushed her cheek and left.
He walked to the street corner to hail a cab. He needed backseat solitariness. He climbed in, glad of the familiarity of a black London cab; it smelled of shoe polish and faintly of garlic, almost strong enough to mask the scent of some distantly lingering perfume. Hugo sank back and tried to focus on his busy afternoon ahead.
18
William Has a Word
Everyone arrived at once, the way it sometimes happened; answering the bell, Nattie found all four guests on the doorstep, making their own introductions with awkward smiles. Amber, with her carroty-blonde bob fluffed out and backcombed, had a pussycat smile for Nattie, which made her feel weary; she sensed battle lines being drawn. A corner of her felt natural feline jealousy, but wouldn’t it actually help a bit to have Hugo looking Amber’s way?
Brian, she’d noticed, opening the door, had been doing just that, eyeing up Amber on the steps. So he was one of those. It was hard to see him being altruistically interested in helping Hugo and the evening suddenly seemed much less of a good idea.
‘Hi! Come on in, all of you,’ she said with her best welcoming face, ‘out of this miserable wind. Delighted to meet you, Brian.’ He was a small plump man with close-cropped dark hair, smelling of aftershave and wearing a donkey-brown jacket, button-down shirt and skinny blue tie. Nattie shook his hand, feeling his eyes boring into her too, and she turned quickly to kiss Tom and Imogen hello and greet Amber.
Hugo came up behind her to say hi and take coats. He kissed Imogen’s cheek – Amber’s too. ‘Hello, handsome,’ she said, like some games-show hostess with a line in trite quip
s. ‘Long time no see. We were only sat round a table like an hour ago,’ she explained, laughing her head off.
She was slightly stocky and short-necked, but had smooth, attractively plump shoulders, shown to advantage in the low-cut black dress she was wearing, along with scarlet high heels to draw the eye to those sexy ankles of hers. Nattie had to concede she had chutzpah in spades. Amber was a lot more suited to public relations than Hugo.
She led the way into the sitting room with Brian hard behind her. ‘I must say,’ he murmured, ‘Hugo’s got a lot to answer for, keeping you under wraps.’
Nattie felt free to ignore that. She settled everyone and took round cheese straws while Hugo dealt with drinks. ‘I gather you and Nattie had tea the other day,’ she heard him say to Tom, handing him a glass of Bordeaux. Hugo was wasting no time in checking that out.
‘Yes, it was great seeing her,’ Tom said loyally, which was adaptably true enough. ‘We talked about old times.’
Imogen shot him a hurt look. That meant Maudie to her: she knew that Maudie was Nattie’s close friend. Imogen was wearing a burgundy suit and looked ill at ease, which the severe suit only seemed to emphasise. It wasn’t her sort of evening. Media people – lightweights in her eyes – were far from her scene. Nattie could imagine her coming alight and being vivacious in the company of academics and scions of her psychiatric world.
She stayed chatting lamely to Imogen, but soon slipped away to see to the food.
Thick cream candles in white china holders, blue-and-white-striped mats, white cyclamen plants in dark blue pots, she liked the look of the table. She’d asked Ian’s advice about what to have for dinner, smiling over the desks and sipping coffee. She often did that; he was a keen cook and always looked pleased. It helped to keep relations friendly. His suggested first course, roasted peach with Parma ham and salad leaves, was ready on the plates and she called people in.
The Consequence of Love Page 17