Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  The room swam in front of Georgina’s eyes. To think of Martin, so painfully, desperately shy, seeking out Nanny, and asking her where he could find her, seemed almost unbelievable. For some reason she thought quite illogically of Lady Macbeth, and her command to her husband: ‘Now screw your courage to the sticking point.’ Martin must have had to do that, right to the sticking point; he must be genuinely and extremely fond of her.

  ‘Look,’ he was saying, ‘if you do need anything, money or anything, I mean, you will let me know, won’t you? Promise me. I’d hate you not to be properly taken care of.’

  ‘Oh Martin,’ said Georgina, ‘I just don’t know what to say. But yes, I promise I will. Let you know, I mean.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, and then after a pause, ‘Well, I’d better go. When – when is the baby due, by the way?’

  ‘Oh – the end of February,’ she said, ‘or thereabouts.’

  ‘Well you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will. But maybe I’ll see you before then. I hope so.’

  ‘I hope so too. Will you be coming home for Christmas?’

  ‘I’m – not sure,’ she said.

  Two days later, a letter arrived for her, the envelope addressed in Nanny’s writing, from Alexander.

  ‘Dear Georgina,’ it said, ‘I hope that you are well. I would not wish you to spend Christmas alone in London, and therefore I want you to know that you will be welcome at Hartest for the holiday. Your affectionate Father.’

  She read it several times, half pleased that he was holding out an olive branch, however puny, half shocked at the letter’s chill tone (despite the dutiful ‘affectionate’). He was obviously still extremely angry, could not bring himself to apologize for his behaviour, or even to say he missed her. She could not help contrasting it with Martin’s gentle, determined kindness. She set it aside, not sure what to do about it, and found that she felt rather sick.

  Georgina was not home for Christmas, and nor was she with Angie and Tommy, or with Mrs Wicks and Clifford, which had also been on offer. She was in hospital. The day before Christmas Eve she had suddenly developed a dull ache in the bottom of her back, which had developed into quite severe cramps; Lydia Paget had promptly had her admitted to Queen Charlotte’s.

  ‘It’s probably not necessary, but we can’t be too careful. The head’s engaged, and it’s early for that. Don’t look at me like that, Georgina, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Bed rest for a week usually solves all these little problems.’

  She lay, frightened and depressed, in the antenatal ward on Christmas Eve; it was largely empty except for a large black lady who was moaning gently in the next bed: everyone who was considered fit had been sent home.

  Charlotte, who had rushed in to see her as soon as she heard, was sitting on one side of her bed, Lydia Paget on the other.

  ‘Look,’ said Lydia, ‘there really isn’t anything to worry about, I’m sure. The cramps have stopped, haven’t they, Georgina, and the foetal heartbeat is very strong. And the baby’s lashing about. Look at him.’ They all looked and laughed; Georgina’s large stomach, under the hospital sheet, was heaving up and down. ‘Now I know it’s horrid being here for Christmas, but it’s a great deal better than risking losing the baby. Look at it that way.’

  The day after Boxing Day she had just been told she could get up for an hour when the ward doors opened and a tall, stooping figure wearing wellington boots and a Barbour walked towards her bed. He held out a rather tatty bunch of flowers and smiled at her.

  ‘Martin!’ she said, so amazed she could feel her jaw actually drop. ‘How lovely to see you. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Well believe it or not I’ve come to visit you,’ he said, looking rather helplessly round him.

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you at home? It’s Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not a great one for Christmas,’ he said, ‘I get very tired of it very quickly. And Catriona had to go and visit her mother in Bournemouth, she’s not at all well, and I thought – well I thought I’d come and see you.’

  ‘Well, that is just the nicest present I’ve had all Christmas,’ said Georgina. If Santa himself had walked in, she thought, complete with Rudolph, she could hardly have been more amazed. ‘Come and sit down.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat on the bed rather gingerly. ‘Are you all right? Charlotte told me you were in hospital and I was worried about you.’ He looked worried, she thought; the lines on this thin face were even deeper than usual.

  ‘Honestly, Martin, I’m fine. It was all a silly false alarm. The baby has settled down again, and I’m allowed up this afternoon. Home in two or three days.’

  ‘You must take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘Is there anyone to look after you when you do get home? Couldn’t you go back to Hartest?’

  ‘Well, Charlotte tells me Nanny’s threatened to come up and stay with me,’ said Georgina, ignoring the second question, ‘and Angie has offered to have me, and Mrs Wicks, her grandmother you know, she says she could nurse me for a day or two, so I shall probably be killed by kindness.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, that’s good. You look very well,’ he added, ‘it suits you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Georgina, patting her stomach. ‘It certainly is very odd to be fat.’

  ‘Um – what are you going to do when you’ve had the baby?’ said Martin. ‘I mean, where will you live? And is there anyone who can – well, look after you then?’

  ‘I shall look after myself,’ said Georgina firmly. ‘I plan to get a job. And I shall live in my flat. In Chiswick. It’s very nice, you know. I’m not in some kind of attic.’

  ‘Well that’s good,’ said Martin. ‘I just wondered. I mean it’s a lot for you to cope with.’

  ‘Oh, not really,’ said Georgina. ‘Other people manage.’

  ‘Yes, but other people usually have husbands,’ said Martin. He sounded surprisingly firm. ‘I really wonder if you’ve thought this through, Georgina.’

  Georgina felt a stab of irritation suddenly. She’d been so pleased to see him, and now he was beginning to sound like all the others. Fussing away. Well, in a way it was quite nice, she supposed. Almost fatherly. This was more the sort of thing she’d expected from Alexander. She smiled at him.

  ‘I know. And it really is so nice of you to worry. But I’m sure I’ll be all right. Angie has suggested she takes me on as a trainee in her property company. I’d like that.’

  ‘But you can’t give up your architecture,’ he said, looking quite shocked. ‘You’re so good at it, or so your father has always said, and you love it.’

  ‘Well – I’m quite good at it. I can live without it.’ There was another silence. Martin looked at his feet. The doors of the ward opened again, and Angie came in.

  ‘Hallo, Martin!’ she said, smiling at him. ‘How lovely to see you again. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘He’s playing fairy godfather,’ said Georgina.‘Very sweetly came to visit me. He was worried about me.’

  ‘How nice of you,’ said Angie, sparkling at Martin. She always moved into another gear when there was a new man around. ‘What a good friend. Braving a maternity ward when you’re not even related to any of the mothers. I call that courage.’

  Martin seemed even more embarrassed; he blushed and smiled at her awkwardly and looked back at his extremely large feet.

  ‘And did you have a good Christmas?’ said Angie. ‘And how’s your wife?’

  ‘Yes, very nice. Catriona is well, thank you. We were at Hartest on Boxing Day. Alexander was in good form.’

  ‘Was he?’ said Angie briskly. ‘How nice.’ Her expression made it clear she didn’t want to hear anything about Alexander’s good form. ‘Doesn’t Georgina look good? It suits her, don’t you think? When I was pregnant with the twins I looked like some kind of a circus freak. Hideous.’

  ‘I’m sure you looked very nice,’ said Martin politely. ‘Well, I think I should be getting
along now. I’m glad you’re all right, Georgina. You won’t forget what I said, will you? About – about help and everything?’

  ‘No,’ said Georgina, ‘I won’t. And thank you so much for coming and for being so kind. Bye, Martin.’

  She reached up to kiss him; he returned the kiss briefly and then hurried off, struggling into his shabby Barbour as he went.

  ‘He’s so sweet,’ said Angie absently, looking after him.

  ‘Isn’t he? I simply can’t get over him coming,’ said Georgina. ‘It must have cost him an almost superhuman effort. Why on earth do you think he did it?’

  ‘I suppose he was worried about you,’ said Angie.

  ‘Yes but – Angie, he never leaves Wiltshire. Never. I think the last time was for his wedding.’

  ‘Well – maybe he fancies you.’

  ‘Oh, now that is silly,’ said Georgina. ‘Martin – fancying anyone!’

  ‘Excuse me!’ said Angie. ‘I had a very nice time with him at your father’s party. Very nice. He was quite drunk and he came outside with me and –’

  ‘And what?’ said Georgina, laughing.

  ‘Well and nothing. He just talked a lot. But I think he’s very sexy. In that mournful romantic kind of way. I suppose it’s the Russian blood.’

  ‘What Russian blood?’ said Georgina, staring at her. ‘I didn’t know Martin had Russian blood.’

  ‘Didn’t you? Oh, yes. Apparently his grandmother was Russian,’ said Angie. ‘His second name is Russian even. It’s – now let me see. Yuri? No that’s not right. Jurgen? No – Oh, I know, Yegor. Yes that’s it.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Georgina. ‘Well, you’ve got more out of him than any of us ever did, Angie. Yegor! What a name.’

  ‘It’s the Russian version of George, apparently,’ said Angie, picking out the best grapes from a bunch by Georgina’s bed. ‘I reckon he was in love with your mum. He was telling me how beautiful she was.’

  ‘Martin? Oh don’t be silly. He’s absolutely under Catriona’s thumb. Never goes anywhere or does anything without her.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he couldn’t fancy someone else,’ said Angie. ‘Powerful stuff, sex.’

  ‘Oh Angie, you’re obsessed with sex,’ said Georgina, laughing. ‘Now I want to know what Clifford gave your gran for Christmas.’

  As the time for the birth drew nearer she felt her spirit darken. She felt less brave, less optimistic; loneliness stalked her, and she longed, astonished at herself, for her mother who had died what seemed so long ago, when she herself had been no more than a child. She thought of her constantly, wondering if Virginia had felt what she was feeling: the physical weariness and discomfort, the fear of the ordeal of birth, the trepidation at the prospect of being totally responsible for another human being.

  Ten days before the baby was due, Charlotte arrived in Chiswick to find Georgina lying on the sofa, trying to get comfortable.

  ‘I wish I knew who my father was,’ Georgina said suddenly. ‘Where he was. I wish I could see him. You’re so lucky, you and Max.’

  ‘Georgie, I’m amazed,’ said Charlotte. ‘You always said you didn’t want to know, that Daddy was your father, that –’

  ‘Yes I know, I know,’ said Georgina irritably, ‘but being pregnant has made me feel different. I really feel as if I need to know. I miss Mummy too,’ she added.

  ‘I expect it’s just because you and Alexander have quarrelled,’ said Charlotte briskly.

  ‘No, it isn’t, I started wanting to know, thinking about him, before I’d ever told Daddy. It’s obviously a strong primeval urge.’

  ‘Well, may be you should start even now and try to find him.’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, how can I? What clues do I have? Just that he’s called George and he’s probably very tall. I mean – well I mean! No, I just have to live without him. Make up with Daddy, and manage with him.’

  ‘Have you heard from Daddy again?’

  ‘Oh, once or twice. He’s phoned. I know he’s sorry. He hasn’t said so, he’s as cold as ever, but I can tell. I don’t actually want to make up with him just now. I haven’t got the strength.’ She sighed. ‘I expect when the baby’s born I’ll feel better about him.’

  ‘Yes. Are you – scared, Georgie?’

  ‘Yes. I am a bit,’ said Georgina. ‘I mean, I know there are all sorts of things you can have now, and it’s not like it used to be, and Lydia will be there, but I look at this great bump and – well, it’s quite a lot to get out, isn’t it?’

  She smiled slightly shakily at Charlotte.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ said Charlotte. ‘Oh, by the way, Georgie, I met Martin last weekend, when I went down. He asked after you so sweetly, and made me promise to tell him the minute anything was happening. He said something really quite odd, actually. He said, “I wish she was having it down here, so I was near her.” He really does adore you, doesn’t he? It’s sweet. I suppose as he hasn’t got any children of his own, he might see you as a kind of substitute. A surrogate daughter.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose he might,’ said Georgina. She stared at Charlotte, feeling rather strange suddenly. Fragments of thoughts, of conversations, kept running through her head, linking and then drawing apart again. What was it, where did they lead? She sat up a bit and said to Charlotte, ‘I’d love a cup of hot tea. With sugar in. I’ve got a bit of a tummyache. And could you fill me a hot-water bottle?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Charlotte, ‘and then I’ll see you to bed before I go. When are you going to move in with me?’ Georgina had promised to spend the last few days of her pregnancy with Charlotte, so that when she did go into labour Charlotte could deal with the practicalities, like phoning Lydia Paget and getting the ambulance.

  ‘Oh – at the weekend, probably. Yes, I think I’ll have a bath, and then go to bed.’

  ‘I’ll stay till you’re out of it. Make sure you don’t slip,’ said Charlotte with a grin.

  She drifted off to sleep even before Charlotte had left, still trying to work out what it was precisely that was drifting round her brain. She was dreaming now; she was running towards someone, someone very tall, walking away from her, with his back to her. ‘George,’ she was calling, ‘George.’ But he wouldn’t turn round, and he was walking even faster now; Georgina ran harder herself; she was panting, and she had a horrible stitch that kept coming and going.

  ‘Please!’ she shouted. ‘Please. Wait.’

  And then she fell over and the stitch was worse, like a knife in her side. ‘Ouch,’ she yelled. ‘Ouch, it hurts!’

  She woke herself up with her yells. She was lying on her side, as she had fallen in her dream, and the stitch was still bad.

  Georgina realized she was in labour.

  ‘Come on then, love.’ The ambulance man was kind and reassuring. Like a father. Shit, here was another one. They really did hurt. Maybe she was further on than she’d thought. God. It was lasting a bit of a time, this one. Oh, there, going again. That was better. Yes, he was so nice, the man. ‘All right? How often are they coming?’ he said. He and his colleague had lifted her into a kind of chair which was actually a stretcher, to carry her out of the flat.

  ‘Um – well, about every ten minutes. I think,’ said Georgina.

  ‘Oh well, we’ve got plenty of time. You all right?’ he said again. ‘Oh – oh yes, thank you. Bit scared,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t be scared, my love,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘Nothing to be scared of these days. You can have a nice epidural, not feel a thing. Who’s your doctor?’

  ‘Mrs Paget.’

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she, Dick? Like a mum to her mums, I always say.’ Dick nodded. ‘Come on, sweetheart, in we go.’

  Georgina smiled at them both; they were putting her in the ambulance now. ‘And you’re like fathers. Really.’

  Something suddenly began to clarify in her rather confused brain. What was it? Something to do with fathers. And – oh, God, another tug. She clutched Dick’s arm, closed her eyes, trie
d to breathe how she had been told. Gradually it faded. ‘It hurts a bit,’ she said, opening her eyes, trying to smile.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ said Dick, smiling back.

  They had got to the admission room now. She had had another pain. It was really quite fierce. A nurse, kind but brisk, was pulling back the blanket. ‘Can you get onto the bed by yourself? When this contraction is over.’

  ‘Yes of course.’ She spoke with difficulty, slithered off the stretcher onto the bed. It was hard; it suited the pain. It was more of a wrench now than a tug. She didn’t like it very much.

  ‘Now then. Let’s have a little look. I’m going to examine you. I’ll listen to the baby’s heart first, and then do an internal. I’ll be as gentle as I can.’

  It wasn’t gentle enough; the probing hand inside her, meeting the wrench, was awful. Georgina yelled.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Try to relax.’

  The wrench had receded; she tried to concentrate on something else. Now what had it been, that she had been thinking of then, the thought she kept trying to finish? Daughters: yes, that was it. And fathers. Something kept surfacing. Something someone else had said. And something she’d thought. What, what? Oh, yes, dear Martin, so kind, so concerned.

  And Charlotte had said … yes, that was it, that because he didn’t have any children of his own, maybe he thought of her as a sort of daughter. That was a nice thought. Very nice. But there was something else, something – oh God. Another one.

  She screwed her face up, bracing herself. It was nasty. Really quite nasty. The nurse spoke to her firmly. ‘You’re doing it all wrong. You must relax. Not tense yourself. Didn’t you go to classes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgina, ‘but it was easy then.’ She smiled at the nurse. The nurse smiled back.

  ‘Well, you’ve come quite a way, you’ll be pleased to hear. So it’s not too surprising the contractions are getting stronger. You’re two fingers dilated already. Well done.’