AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Goodness,’ said Chloe. ‘Why aren’t we employing you, Ludovic?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you should be.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to talk to Piers about this gagging writ. See what he thinks. If I can distract him for long enough from Othello.’

  Piers was not to be distracted; Chloe tried hard for ten minutes and gave up.

  ‘We’ll talk about it at the weekend,’ he said. ‘I admit it sounds interesting. But I can’t think about it now. Still nothing from – well, from Downing Street?’

  ‘No, Piers. Sorry.’

  She put the phone down, not sure whether she felt more exasperated by his obsession with the knighthood than his ostrich-like approach to the book. Poor Piers. It mattered so much to him. More than anything, anything in the world. If he didn’t get it now, because of this book, it would be – Chloe suddenly had an idea. A blindingly simple, clever idea. She picked up the phone again, dialled Nicholas Marshall.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Windsor?’

  ‘As I understand it, an injunction is only worth going for if it is felt that any damages cannot compensate for the – well, for the damage.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Well, my husband is, as you probably know, in line for a knighthood. It has even been discussed at some length in very respectable newspapers. He should have got one at least a year ago. Now then, if the scandal of this book robbed him of that, wouldn’t you think that would be something he could not be compensated for? By damages, however large they were?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Windsor. Yes, I would. But it would be a difficult thing to prove. Very difficult. And besides, if he had lost the knighthood before the book came out, then the damage would have been done, and it would not be worth taking out an injunction to limit it. It’s a very dangerous game to issue proceedings when what’s in the book may be true.’

  ‘Worth a try though? Don’t you think?’

  ‘Possibly. Just possibly. But we would be talking about a great deal of money here. A great deal. You might be liable for costs. That could easily amount to a hundred thousand pounds for a three- or four-day hearing. You’d need a QC and a junior; it could drag on for weeks, witnesses being produced and so on. If they were pleading justification, that is. Which they certainly would, if they were to go ahead.’

  ‘I’m sure we could raise it somehow,’ said Chloe. ‘I’m going to do some research, Mr Marshall. I’ll come back to you.’

  Maria Woolf was very intrigued by Chloe’s phone call.

  ‘My dear, of course I’ll help if I can. I just wish I hadn’t talked to Magnus for this wretched book. But he was so charming, so persuasive.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Chloe, thinking that if there was any justice, Maria at least would have a few skeletons unearthed from her rather tasteless cupboard by Magnus’s book. ‘Anyway, Maria, I just need to talk to whoever would know about recommendations to the Prime Minister for the honours list. Could you ask Jack? Please?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Chloe. Oh dear, I do hope Piers does get his knighthood this time.’

  ‘So do I, Maria.’

  ‘And how is Othello coming along? Of course, I forgot, Piers doesn’t like to talk to you about things in rehearsal, does he? Some kind of foolish superstition.’

  ‘Foolish behaviour more like it,’ said Chloe briskly. ‘Thank you, Maria.’

  Piers got back very late that Friday. He looked terrible. Chloe was shocked. Not just exhausted and white-faced, but very drawn and so thin. Horribly thin. For a moment her spirit quailed; she felt all she could, all she should do for him, was let him spend the weekend asleep. Certainly it was all she could do for the next twelve hours. She told him to go to bed, made him a hot toddy, and took it up to his dressing room. He was already sound asleep.

  Maria Woolf rang next morning, early, while she was giving the children their breakfast.

  ‘Chloe, my dear, some good news. I’ve spoken to a very close friend of ours for you. His name is Gerald Ramsey Browne. Such a charming man, a High court judge. He’s on the Honours Committee. I don’t know if you ever met him at any of our parties; he has a rather sweet little wife, a tiny bit shy; I’ve been able to help her a little here and there with parties, it’s always so nice to be able to do that for people. I always enjoyed helping you in that way, as you know. Anyway, as a special favour to me, he is most happy for you to talk to him on Monday. Ring him any time in the morning, but of course do mention my name, otherwise you just won’t get through.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Maria,’ said Chloe dutifully. ‘I’m terribly grateful.’

  Piers came in. ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Maria,’ said Chloe briefly.

  ‘Oh, God, not a party.’

  ‘No, not a party.’ That made her realize more than anything how terrible he must feel, not wanting to go to a party. ‘She was just – just telling me something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, Piers, nothing. Just the arrangements for all of us getting down to Stratford. Next month.’

  ‘But, Chloe, they’ve all been made.’

  ‘Well, actually they haven’t,’ said Chloe briskly, ‘Now, Piers, do you want muesli or cornflakes?’

  ‘Neither. I’m not hungry. Just coffee.’

  ‘Piers, you must eat. You’re so thin.’

  ‘Chloe, I’m fine. And I don’t like being lied to. What was Maria phoning about?’

  Chloe hadn’t intended to get into the hard stuff so early in the weekend, but she seemed to have no choice. ‘It’s an idea I’ve had, Piers. About the book.’

  ‘Oh, Chloe.’ He sounded infinitely weary. ‘I wish you’d leave that wretched book alone. There’s nothing we can do, as far as I can see, and this is just adding to the agony of it all.’

  ‘Well, Piers, I think there is. Quite a lot we can do actually. I’ve been talking to Ludovic and –’

  ‘Oh really?’ he said, and his face was watchful ‘When were you talking to him?’

  ‘The other day.’ She ignored his expression. ‘Has Nicholas Marshall said anything to you about a gagging writ?’

  ‘No. Not that I recall. He says a great deal, of course. Most of it useless. And expensive.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to get Ludovic to talk to you. Meanwhile, listen. This is an idea I had.’

  Piers sighed. Chloe felt angry suddenly, angry that he should do so little to help himself, his cause, angry that they were all working so hard on his behalf. She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself.

  ‘You know you should have got your knighthood in the New Year. And were more or less promised it this time, in the birthday honours. Well, I thought that if all the attendant scandal of the book were to risk your loss of it again, then we really would have grounds for taking out an injunction. Because no damages, however great, could compensate for that. That’s what the lawyers say, isn’t it?’

  ‘Chloe, this is nonsense.’ Piers sat down wearily, reached for the coffee pot. ‘Far-fetched nonsense.’

  ‘Piers, it isn’t nonsense. I talked to Nicholas Marshall and he said it wasn’t. He said it would be hard to prove and might be very expensive, but we could have a case.’

  ‘You talked to Nicholas Marshall about this? Without consulting me? And Maria Woolf?’

  ‘Not Maria, of course,’ said Chloe, ‘but Nicholas Marshall, yes. Yes I did. We thought –’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’

  ‘He and I,’ said Chloe steadily.

  ‘Well, you had no right to. No right at all.’

  ‘Oh Piers, don’t be ridiculous. This book concerns me as much as it concerns you.’

  ‘Does it?’ he said. He was looking at her very strangely.

  ‘Well, of course it does. I’m your wife.’ The tiny frail hope that she might not be forced
to continue as Piers’s wife drifted across Chloe’s mind; she crushed it with a great effort.

  ‘Chloe, I’ve told you before. I don’t want to contest this book. I just want to leave it.’

  ‘Piers, why? Why? You have to tell me.’

  He was silent.

  ‘It’s this Zwirn person, isn’t it? You’re frightened of all that coming out. Isn’t it, Piers? Look at me. Isn’t it?’

  He looked at her, and there was such misery, such hostility in his eyes she felt quite frightened. Then he stood up and walked heavily out of the kitchen.

  She heard him upstairs, moving around, and then ten minutes after he appeared again, dressed, his overnight bag in his hand.

  ‘I’m going to Stebbings,’ he said, ‘I’m not prepared to stay and be subjected to this.’

  ‘Oh Piers,’ said Chloe, and her voice rose so much she was almost shouting. ‘Piers, don’t. Stay, talk about it, let me help. Please, please!’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t and I won’t. Now please get out of my way. I want some peace.’

  Pandora appeared in the doorway, her eyes large at the sound of the quarrelling. ‘Where are you going, Daddy?’

  ‘To Stebbings.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No,’ said Piers and Chloe in unison.

  Pandora burst into noisy tears.

  Piers looked helplessly at her. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he said to Chloe.

  Gerald Ramsey Browne was pompously, charmingly useless. He said he was quite unable to part with any information as it was of course absolutely privileged; the birthday honours were about to be privately announced and the matter was particularly delicate.

  ‘Really? So soon?’ said Chloe. ‘But it’s only March.’

  Her head ached. It had been a horrible weekend. The children had been impossible, Rosemary had been away, Piers had left the answering machine on all weekend and refused to return any of her frantic calls, and Ludovic had been in Lincolnshire hunting. And now this old bore was telling her he couldn’t help.

  ‘I know it’s March, my dear, but these wheels have to grind extremely slowly. And small.’

  ‘Could you answer my question hypothetically at least?’ said Chloe slightly desperately.

  ‘Try me, my dear.’

  ‘If – someone was up for a knighthood, and there was some scandal threatening him, and the powers that be –’

  ‘Which powers would that be?’

  God, she could almost see his chins quivering.

  ‘Well, whoever it is who draws up the final list. Of honours.’

  ‘Ye-es?’

  ‘Well, if those people got to hear about it, would he lose the knighthood?’

  ‘I can only tell you that is possible. I can’t say more than that. It is likely, I would say, but not definite. And of course, you could never be sure that the knighthood was forthcoming anyway. It’s terribly complex, you see. There are always mitigating circumstances, in everything. And it would depend on the nature of the scandal.’

  ‘But if someone was going to be – well, let’s say, named in a nasty divorce case. Would that affect their chances?’

  ‘It could. It possibly could.’

  ‘How could you establish that had happened? That he had lost his honour, because of that?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be remotely possible, my dear. I really don’t. The lists are so highly confidential. And it wouldn’t be a case – probably – of being struck off the list. This hypothetical person would probably never be considered if the scandal was truly imminent.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, thank you, very much,’ said Chloe and put the phone down. She felt near to tears.

  Maria Woolf rang almost immediately. ‘Chloe? Did you get Ramsey Browne?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Chloe listlessly.

  ‘Oh good. Such a charmer, isn’t he? So sweet of him, to give you his time. Was he able to help?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ said Chloe. ‘But thank you anyway, Maria.’

  There was a stony silence; Chloe promptly felt guilty, that she must have done something wrong.

  ‘Well,’ said Maria, her voice at its most shrill, ‘well, I can only say you must have been asking something very difficult. He always knows the answer to everything. Oh dear, I do hope you haven’t overstepped the line, Chloe, pressed him too hard. I would hate to have upset him. Perhaps I should phone, and apologize. Oh, what a pity. So unfortunate when a friendly gesture misfires.’

  ‘I don’t think I overstepped the line,’ said Chloe, through clenched teeth, ‘but if I did, Maria, I’m very sorry. I –’

  But Maria was gone.

  The phone rang again, almost at once. It was Joe.

  ‘Hallo, darling. I’ve been so worried about you. I didn’t dare ring over the weekend. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, it is really,’ said Chloe, slightly warily. ‘Joe, can you do some research for me for the next honours list?’

  ‘Why?’

  Chloe told him.

  Joe said he was doubtful, but he’d do what he could. ‘There’s something else. Your mother asked me to find out which papers were most interested in the book. For serialization. The answer’s most of them, but Beaumans are holding an auction next month. When the first draft is available for reading.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ said Chloe. ‘Thanks, Joe.’

  She sat down and buried her head in her hands. What a wasted weekend. And she hadn’t even been able to talk to Piers about the gagging writ.

  When the phone rang again, she shouted at the Filipina cleaner to get it, that she didn’t want to talk to anyone. ‘Unless it’s a Mr Ingram.’

  The Filipina’s English was very limited; she came in beaming and said it had been a Mr Ingram. ‘I told him you say you want to talk to anyone but him.’

  Mr Ingram had put the phone down.

  Fleur was in the middle of her orgasm when she decided she couldn’t go through with her marriage to Reuben. She decided it because even at that very moment, she realized she was still trying to analyse how she felt about it, about him, about their future, and setting how she felt about him against how she felt about Magnus Phillips. She knew there was no future in her relationship with Magnus: but he occupied her absolutely, absorbed her, all her thoughts, all her senses, and she could not forget him, not in any way, not for a moment of an hour of a day, intellectually, emotionally, physically. And she knew that was what she needed, had been looking for all her life in a relationship. A one hundred per cent, consummate, unmitigated occupation of herself. What was that expression? she wondered, as she lay there, feeling her body settling, calming, easing into normalcy, wondering that she could think so lucidly at such a moment: something stern, something biblical, something absolutely demanding? I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. That was what Magnus Phillips was to her, beginning and end, and every thing and thought and sensation in between. She could not, should not marry Reuben, who she loved so much, so dearly, knowing that feeling for someone else. It just wasn’t going to work. She looked at him as he rolled off her, looked at his dear, gently ugly face, his speckled hazy eyes, full of love, his huge bony hand taking her own small one in his, kissing it tenderly, and would have given everything she had to be able to spare him the pain of what she had to do to him. But she knew she couldn’t. It would be dishonest and it would be cowardly, the two things she most despised. She had to stop it and she had to stop it now, at once, before another night, another day, another hour of hope and happiness on his part compounded her dreadful, cruel error.

  ‘Reuben,’ she said, ‘Reuben’ – and she had to stop, so huge was the pain in her heart, so strangely did his face dance through her tears.

  Reuben leant up on his elbow, looking at her in t
ender concern, and said, ‘Fleur, what is it, what’s the matter, don’t cry.’

  And she sat up and said, ‘Reuben, I’m very sorry, and I have to cry because it makes me so sad. Reuben, I can’t marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone else, and it has nothing to do with anything, except that I don’t love you enough. I love you very much, but not enough to make my life with you.’

  Reuben stared at her, as if he did not understand what she said, as if she was speaking in an entirely different language, and then after a very long time, and without a word, he stood up, got dressed, and walked heavily towards the door. He turned there, looked at her, and said, his voice cracking with misery, ‘Goodbye then, Fleur,’ and she heard his footsteps, his slow, heavy footsteps, moving down the stairs.

  She lay, without crying, for the rest of the night, remembering him, remembering everything about him, the first time they had met, when he had sat in the Steinbergs’ kitchen and said he hated Bloomingdale’s because it was horrible and that had been the sum total of his conversation; remembering the way he had bought the picture for her, without telling her, simply because she liked it, how he had said Julie Christie was beautiful ‘like you’; the first time he had made love to her, in all its wonderful pleasure, and told her he liked the way she didn’t try to force him to talk; remembering his happiness when she finally agreed to marry him, the way he never pressed her, never probed, never pried, accepted her bad temper, her awkwardness, the way he had sent her off to London, only a month earlier, without a word of reproach or complaint; the way he had sat, listening to her carefully, as she told him her extraordinary story, and had simply at the end of it said, ‘I see.’ All these things she remembered, and thought how she would miss him and his goodness and how much he loved her and her heart ached with pain and remorse, but she still did not cry; but in the morning she went into the kitchen and saw, standing in the sink, their two coffee mugs and their two wine glasses from the night before, and for some reason, that made her realize finally that they were no longer two, that she had sent him away from her and broken his heart for no real reason except that she could not love him quite enough; and then finally she sat down and cried for a very long time, and realized how much, how very much she was going to miss him.