‘I could always – perform with prostitutes,’ he said. ‘With people I didn’t care about. I’m a classic case, it seems. Freud describes it as the need for a debased sexual object. What he refers to as the affectionate current and the sensual current are adrift. Oh, I could lecture on the subject for many hours, you know.’ He smiled at her, slightly shamefaced. ‘I had a lot of treatment. Horrible, some of it. It never did any good.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. That was why I came to love Hartest so obsessively, of course. It became the focus for all my frustration, all my love. If I couldn’t have a wife, children, I could have Hartest.’
‘I see,’ said Angie. The room seemed to be rocking again slightly.
‘But I wanted a wife. I wanted children. Had to have children. And then I met Virginia. And I just loved her. I took one look at her and loved her. It was cataclysmic. I would have done anything for her. Anything. Died if necessary. I worshipped her, Angie, I really did. You have to believe that.’
‘I believe it,’ said Angie quietly. His voice had become monotonous, but absolutely compelling.
‘She was everything, everything I wanted, needed, that Hartest needed. She was beautiful, cultured, charming, amusing – and she was good, Angie. She was terribly good. Kind. Concerned. And she loved me too. I know she did.’
‘She must have done,’ said Angie, staring at him.
‘So I did it. I did the unforgivable thing, and married her.’
‘Knowing?’
‘Knowing. Oh, I went back to the therapists, the psychiatrists, everyone, hoping, praying. But – well, yes, knowing. I can’t quite tell you what I thought might happen. I still don’t know. I turn my mind from it.’
‘Alexander, why didn’t she guess? How could she be so naïve, so stupid? I just don’t understand.’
‘She was very young,’ he said simply. ‘She was a virgin. It was a long time ago. She had led a very sexually sheltered life. It’s hard for someone like you to understand –’
‘It certainly is,’ said Angie tartly.
‘I can only tell you the truth. What happened.’
‘Which was – what?’
Alexander took another drink.
‘I – managed to deceive her. I told her I didn’t want to sleep with her until we were married. I was quite ardent. In my own way. The desire is still there, you see, this is what nobody understands.’
‘I see.’
‘I have to say in my defence,’ he said, and his expression was suddenly lighter, ‘that she was very anxious to become the Countess of Caterham. She liked the idea very much. She was so much in the shadow of Baby, you know. She needed to be important herself.’
‘I see. Well, I can understand that. It was a big shadow, Baby’s.’
‘So – well, we were married. I don’t want to talk too much about it all. But she was very loyal. She stayed with me. Had our children. I do think she must have loved me.’
‘Alexander, when you say she had your children, what exactly went on there? Did you just send her out to find some – some fathers?’
‘Yes.’ The simplicity, the directness of his answer shocked Angie; she felt slightly sick suddenly. In the depths of the house a phone was ringing.
‘I’ll get that,’ he said, ‘excuse me.’
He came back smiling. ‘That was my mother. Calling to say – Happy Christmas.’
The mention of Christmas brought Angie back to normality. She looked at her watch. Nearly half past nine. She felt chilled suddenly, chilled and threatened, without knowing why. Why wasn’t Max back, why hadn’t he phoned?
Alexander was talking again. He had once again refilled his glass. She forced herself to concentrate, to listen attentively to what he was saying.
‘Virginia was an alcoholic, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Angie quietly, ‘I do know.’
‘I drove her to it, I expect,’ he said. There were tears in his eyes again.
Angie looked at him. There seemed very little she could say.
‘And nobody, Angie, nobody in the world knows about – about me. Except for yourself. And Nanny.’
‘Nanny!’
‘Yes. She always knew. She knew about the marriage, everything. In her own, rather simplistic way. But she would never tell. Never. She loves me, and besides, she promised me and she promised Virginia. Whom she also loved very much.’ He looked at Angie again, almost defiantly. ‘She really did love me, you know, Virginia.’
‘I believe you,’ said Angie.
He sighed and looked at her. ‘It would be terrible if anyone knew, Angie. Terrible. I had a few worries, when there were all those stories in the paper. Fred Praeger threatened to sue, you know. But I – well, I eventually managed to persuade him not to.’
‘We all thought – oh nothing,’ said Angie, staring at him.
‘I know. You thought I didn’t know. Of course I knew. I’m not a fool.’ His eyes were different, suddenly: watchful, cunning.
‘Alexander, of course you’re not a fool. Um – how did you persuade Fred?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I just said that certain things might come out about Virginia. Which I might be driven to revealing. If I was really being hounded. I said I’d feel better if Hartest was safe again.’
‘Oh,’ said Angie. She felt sick again. God, he was evil. She wished he’d stop telling her things. She forced herself to smile at him. ‘Well, anyway, Alexander, I’m not going to tell. I promise. I never told anyone. Not even Baby.’
‘Really?’ He sounded distant, almost detached.
‘Really. And I never ever will.’
There was another very long silence. Alexander just sat, staring at her. Angie felt panic mounting in her. She felt trapped, nightmarishly trapped. She had to get away. She had to. She realized suddenly that she was sober, quite able to drive.
‘Alexander, I must go. It’s very late. Could I phone?’
‘Yes. Of course. I wonder though if you could do me a great kindness first?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well – I promised to collect Georgina from the Dunbars. Her car is off the road. Some trouble with the electrics. It’s only a couple of miles down the road. Only I’m afraid I’ve drunk rather a lot, I don’t think I’m safe to drive.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Angie, relieved at the thought of getting away from the house. ‘The only thing is, I’m very short of petrol. I’ve only got just enough to get home. Could I take your car to fetch Georgina?’
‘Yes, please do,’ he said, and he seemed almost relieved at her words. ‘That’s a very good idea. It’s out in the front. The old Bentley. You’ll enjoy driving that. And I’ll ring Watersfoot and tell them you’re just leaving.’
‘Angie, hallo. Do come in. What a nice surprise.’ Catriona Dunbar opened the door; Angie smiled at her, thinking how extremely plain she was, and how much a flattering hairstyle and a little make-up would help. Why didn’t these women do something about themselves?
‘I’ve come to collect Georgina. And George. I hope it’s not too early, but I’ve got to go, and Alexander’s had a few too many drinks this evening.’
‘How very kind. She’s in here, talking to Martin.’
Angie followed her into the drawing room; it had that look she had come to know rather well and be constantly amazed by, endemic to the country houses of upper-middle-class England, a kind of cultivated shabbiness.
‘Hallo, Angie,’ said Georgina. ‘Are you all right? You’re very pale.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit tired. Come on, Georgina, we must go.’
‘Martin,’ said Catriona, ‘aren’t you going to offer Angie a drink?’
‘No, honestly,’ said Angie. ‘I have to get back to Watersfoot, and it’s a long drive.’
Georgina put George into the back of the Bentley and got in beside Angie.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ she said politely, ‘but – why are you here?’
‘Your father
rang me, asked me over. He – wanted to talk.’
‘He didn’t tell me he was going to ask you.’
‘Well – he was in a bit of a funny mood. I think he’s better now.’
‘Good. Angie, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just that you seem to be able to talk to Daddy. And – well, if I wanted to leave Hartest, and – and go and live in London for a bit, with George, do you think he’d be all right?’
‘Would this be anything to do with Jake Joseph?’
‘Well – it might.’
‘I think your father would be absolutely fine,’ said Angie. ‘He’s not nearly as fragile as he makes out, you know.’
‘Angie – thank you very much. And I think it’s really nice about you and Max. Honestly.’
‘I’m glad somebody does,’ said Angie.
Alexander was standing on the steps when they got back. He was smiling. Georgina ran into the house with George, after kissing her briefly.
‘See you over Christmas.’
‘Thank you, Angie, so much,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ve phoned Watersfoot, spoken to the nanny. I said you were on your way.’
‘No Max yet?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Oh well.’ The bastard. Still out drinking. Just the kind of husband she needed. ‘Thank you, Alexander. It’s been a – a nice evening. Call me any time you want to talk.’
‘I will.’ He returned the kiss, looked at her rather intently for a moment; then he suddenly took her in his arms, held her very close to him.
‘Now I want you to drive very carefully, Angie. You look tired.’
Chapter 65
Alexander, 1980
‘I want you to drive very carefully, Virginia. You look tired.’
She did look terribly tired. Far too tired to drive all the way to Hartest and to deal with distraught children when she got there. He had really needed her to stay. To talk everything through, to decide what they were going to say and do. He hadn’t been quite sure what might happen after that, but he had thought there might have been several alternatives. In the event, however, he had had no choice. He had had to act rather quickly.
It was just as well, really. There was no room for fear, for indecision. Quickly, carefully, it had had to be done. While she was getting a few things from her luggage, to take down with her. The only danger had been that she might look down into the street. While he had the bonnet up. But he had only been checking the oil, he would have told her, and a loose lead he had noticed, when he had been looking at it the other day.
‘Don’t worry if that warning light comes on,’ he said to her, ‘it’s a fault in the wiring. I’ve booked it in for a service, on Friday. Terribly overdue. You really should take more care of your cars, Virginia.’
‘Yes, Alexander,’ she had said wearily.
He told her that he would be down the following day. To give the children his love, to tell them whatever she thought best. He gave her a kiss, held her closely for what seemed a long time; he was afraid that he might give himself away, weaken. She looked up at him, half surprised. Then he forced himself to smile, to let her go. It was the only thing to do. It really was.
He watched the Golf move slowly off down the street, waving to her, smiling. But its lights were blurred by his tears.
He went into the house to wait.
The only real danger was that the brakes would fail too soon.
Chapter 66
Angie, December 1987
Angie put her foot down the minute she had turned in the forecourt and was in the Great Drive. She felt oddly wretched, slightly sick again. Alexander was clearly more disturbed than she had thought. He certainly seemed to have some trouble confronting reality. The whole encounter had been difficult, frightening even. She didn’t quite know what she should do.
Talk to someone. To Max perhaps. To Charlotte. Charlotte was so sane and sensible. But what should she tell them? That their father was – what? Mad? But he wasn’t. He was very confused, very intense – but not actually mad. Certainly he was harmless. But it did seem to her he needed help.
Angie shivered suddenly and turned up the heating in the BMW, switched on the radio. She felt herself to have been in the heart of some horror, and she wanted to escape, to get away. Well, she was going home. Home to Watersfoot, to the children; home to Max. The weather had deteriorated. It was icy, and it was slightly foggy too. She decided to call, to tell him again that she was on her way. It would make her feel safer, less beleaguered. She stopped the car, just at the top of the Great Drive, as it turned away into the woods, and picked up the phone; shit, it seemed dead. She shook it, stabbed at the buttons; nothing happened. Oh, God. Now if she ran out of petrol, she was really in trouble. She debated going back to the house and rejected it. It really wasn’t worth it.
She moved off again, glanced at the gauge: it was pretty far down. Baby had often told her to carry a spare can. She had always told Baby there were always men around with spare cans. Not tonight there weren’t. Now there was a warning light on; flickering, settling into intensity. What was that? The fuel warning system, presumably. She really ought to take a little more interest in her cars.
Well, she should be OK. She had driven a long way in her time, with fuel gauges jammed on empty. Not so much these days, but when she had been young, and hadn’t had any money. She was always driving around on a wing and a prayer then. She’d only run out once, and that had been on the Pacific Coast Highway, and she’d been wearing cut-off denims, and she’d had plenty of gas in the tank in no time. This was different, though. This was Wiltshire, and it was foggy and she wasn’t wearing cut-offs. She was – Christ, this car was going fast. Sixty-five. She hadn’t meant to put her foot down quite so hard. And a very windy downhill bit of road ahead. ‘Concentrate, Mrs Praeger,’ she said aloud. ‘Think what you’re doing.’
Chapter 67
Alexander, December 1987
It was seeing her stop that did it; that broke the spell. Until then, it had been exactly the same, the sadness of the parting, the kiss, the admonition to drive carefully, and the tail lights blurring with his tears. And the knowledge that it had been necessary. Discovering she knew, that had made it doubly so. He really had had no idea. Obviously it had been that dreadful day, when he’d had the breakdown. She must have been there. He couldn’t remember, but it was the only explanation.
Of course she’d sworn not to tell. Well of course she would have done. He certainly didn’t believe her. He couldn’t. Couldn’t risk it. Especially after talking to her like that. It had been foolish, in a way, allowing himself to talk. But wonderful: such a release. No, he couldn’t possibly have done anything else. There had been no choice, just as there had not with Virginia. It was very very sad, because in a way he was fond of Angie. He always had to get fond of them. That was the trouble. That was the whole terrible, humiliating trouble. She was engaging. In spite of everything he found her engaging. That dreadful vulgar parcel she’d brought; very sweet, really.
He’d done much the same thing to the car as he had to Virginia’s. Not quite so undetectable, but still very clever. What he’d done to the Golf had been masterly. Injecting the brake fluid hose with water. So that when it heated, it had turned to gas. And then all the efforts of the brakes had gone into compressing the gas. Doubly effective as the car started going really fast on the motorway. Poor Virginia. She hadn’t had a chance.
It had been more difficult with the BMW. Pretty, flashy car that, like its owner. But he’d known what to do. He’d studied it, planned it very carefully for days, weeks. Practised with Georgina’s. Attached a flexible blade round each of the brake pipes from the chassis. And then every time the car turned a corner, it cut into the pipe and the fluid began to leak. There were so many corners, as you drove away from Hartest. It would be a miracle if she survived.
But then, seeing her stop, he suddenly remembered. His jacket: it was in the car. He’d gone
out wearing it, and then it had been getting in the way, making it harder to work quickly; he’d taken it off and thrown it in the back. He would have remembered it, retrieved it, if it hadn’t all taken longer than he’d expected; one of the blades had been awkward, wouldn’t fit tightly enough, had threatened to snap, he’d had to get another. And seeing the lights of the Bentley coming back down the drive, he’d just slammed the door and run to the steps. He hadn’t panicked, of course; he never did. He stayed very very calm. He’d just been slightly rushed. That was all.
But he thought he probably should get the jacket. There was just a chance that someone might examine the car, ask questions, inquire as to why the jacket was there. Especially as it had a couple of small screwdrivers in the pocket.
Well, he could catch her up. Easily. The Bentley could outpace that car in the lanes easily; it held the road better, and besides he knew every twist and turn, which she would not.
He could just tell her he’d been checking her petrol gauge: that he’d been worried about it, and thrown the jacket in then. She had been quite worried about getting home; she wouldn’t stop to question him, to think. And after that – well. It wouldn’t matter. She’d be gone. Safely gone. Away from Max. Away from Hartest.
Alexander hesitated for just another moment. Then he ran down the steps and got into the Bentley.
Epilogue
Spring, 1988
ANGIE
She’d lost the baby. Through the long hours of that night, as she sat in Casualty with Tommy, and waited, while Max had been caught up in the dreadful grisly sadness of Alexander’s death and its practical consequences, she became slowly and relentlessly aware of a strong pulling ache in her back; then the sharp cramps began, then the bleeding. They tried to stop it, but it was hopeless; late the following afternoon, she miscarried.
She had cried, cried for hours, from shock as much as grief; Max had wept too, had stood at the foot of the bed looking at her, his face suddenly, sharply older, not touching her, just telling her he loved her, that it would make no difference, that there could be other babies.
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