A Question of Trust

by Penny Vincenzi

  Alice looked alarmed. ‘I hope no one will get in here.’

  ‘Of course they won’t,’ said Ned irritably. ‘Our security is much better now. Anyway, Kit’s fine. Possibly a minor infection, nothing serious – we might give him a dose of penicillin. It is the end of the day, temperatures often go up. Well, you should know that.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Alice meekly, ‘it was just that the house doctor thought –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realise that. Well, I hope you have a reasonable night with him. I’ll look in again in the morning.’

  ‘There’s no need –’

  ‘Well, you don’t know that, do you?’ said Ned, his voice distinctly edgy. ‘Hopefully not, but let’s make that judgement tomorrow. Goodnight, Alice.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ned. Thank you.’

  She smiled rather nervously at him as he left; she hadn’t seen him anything but composed and charming before.

  Tom had undressed Lucy and was about to put her in the bath when there was a ring at the door; maybe it was Mrs Hartley, returning Charlie. He wrapped Lucy in a towel, carried her downstairs, and opened the door. A young – very young – man stood there, holdall at his feet. Tom thought at first he was a door-to-door salesman,

  ‘Good evening, Mr Knelston. Ricky Barnes, Sketch.’

  He rummaged in the holdall and pulled out a notebook.

  Some kind of void opened up in Tom’s guts. He felt violently sick. He actually thought he was going to shit himself, or throw up. This, on top of a very emotional hour with Diana, was unbearable. Thank God she had gone at least. The visits could have coincided. He leaned against the door post, took a deep breath and said, ‘I have nothing to say to you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not even about your little boy? Who’s been very ill, I understand. How is he, Mr Knelston?’

  ‘He’ s – a bit better. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad. But – still in hospital?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. He had major surgery yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, yes. At St Mary’s Hospital Chelsea, I believe.’

  ‘I don’t propose to discuss that with you,’ said Tom. ‘I see. St Mary’s is a private hospital, is it not?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t discuss it.’

  ‘Interesting choice, given that you are a member of the Labour Party, and a great fan of the National Health Service, wouldn’t you say? And the general election only a few days away. I’m just wondering how your constituents would feel about that.’

  And then Tom made his fatal mistake.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with my constituents,’ he said. And thought, Shit. Shit. That was not a good thing to say. Ricky Barnes clearly thought so too.

  ‘Really? I wonder if they’d agree with you. I don’t suppose many of them could afford a private hospital. What was it that made you decide to do that, to take your little boy there? I’ve read a speech of yours in which you refer to private medicine as a form of apartheid.’

  Tom remembered Josh’s words and decided he couldn’t make matters any worse. Perhaps Ricky Barnes had a softer side.

  ‘We were – desperate. My son was extremely ill. Time was of the essence. We – we knew the surgeon at St Mary’ s –’

  ‘Ah. That would be Mr Edward Welles. Right at the top of his tree, I believe. How fortunate that you knew him.’

  ‘Look,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Just go, please.’ He shifted Lucy onto his other arm, tried to close the door. But Ricky Barnes’s foot was jammed in it. So they really did do that, reporters, Tom thought inconsequentially. Then he said, ‘Please remove your foot.’

  ‘I will. Just going –’

  He dug into the holdall, produced a camera and fitted a flashbulb on it, all in one incredibly quick movement, and the flash went off.

  ‘Thank you. This must be your little girl, Lucy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Get out,’ shouted Tom. ‘Just go away. Leave us alone.’

  It couldn’t have been worse.

  Mrs Hartley was just walking down her own path with a sleeping Charlie in his carrycot when the flash went off. She was startled, but continued on her way. This was proving a very eventful afternoon. What with that obviously very smart woman arriving in a taxi, wearing such high heels Mrs Hartley couldn’t imagine being able to walk in them, and then Mr Knelston arriving, white as a sheet, with Lucy, asking if she would mind taking the child for an hour or so, and then returning to pick her up, looking as if he had been crying – she’d been afraid it had been bad news about Kit, but he assured her it wasn’ t – well, it was very different from most Saturdays in Acton.

  A young man was walking towards her; he smiled.

  ‘Good evening. Ricky Barnes, Sketch. You’re a neighbour of Mr Knelston’s, I presume.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Mrs Hartley. She didn’t know much about the press, except that it was not to be trusted. ‘Let me past, please. I’ve got a baby here, who could be catching his death thanks to you.’

  Ricky Barnes remained where he was.

  ‘I just wondered how well you know the Knelstons. Are they good neighbours?’

  ‘Very good indeed. Now –’

  ‘I understand their little boy is in hospital?’

  ‘He might be.’

  ‘Oh, so you don’t know about it?’

  ‘I don’t know anything that’s any business of yours,’ said Mrs Hartley firmly.

  ‘Is that another of their children?’ He indicated the sleeping Charlie in his carrycot.

  ‘It is. I’ve been looking after him. Now if you don’t get out of my way I shall call the police.’

  How she was going to do this without a telephone she wasn’t sure, but Ricky Barnes wasn’t to know that.

  ‘So you didn’t know that the little boy was in a private hospital?’

  ‘Look,’ said Mrs Hartley, ‘Mr and Mrs Knelston are the best parents you could hope to meet. Wherever they’ve decided to take Kit for help, you can be sure it’s the very best place and with the best intentions. And that’s all I have to say.’

  ‘Right. Fine. Thank you, Mrs Hartley. You’ve been most helpful. Goodnight.’

  Hoping she hadn’t been helpful in a way the Knelstons would not have wished, Mrs Hartley proceeded down the path and opened their door.

  Tom, watching from an upstairs window, thanked the Deity that he had insisted Mrs Hartley had a key, in case she needed something for Charlie if he wasn’t there. If he’d had to open the door, Barnes would have been in again.

  ‘Mr Knelston? Here’s Charlie. I’ve just seen some reporter who was on your path.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tom, taking the carrycot, ‘and I’m sorry if he bothered you. What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted to know all kinds of things, but mostly which hospital Kit was in. Or rather if I knew it was private. I told him it was none of his business.’

  ‘Good. Thank you.’ So far, so good. He’d been afraid she’d have been flattered into talking too much.

  ‘You’re welcome. And I told them wherever you’d taken Kit to it would have been the best place, and with the very best intentions.’

  That wasn’t quite so good; but better than it might have been.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Hartley. You did well, getting rid of him.’

  ‘I told him I’d call the police if he didn’t go away.’

  ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? And thank you for having Charlie all day, of course.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had a lovely time. I’ll have him again tomorrow, then you can take Lucy to see Kit. Or I’ll have her here, whatever’s best for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hartley, Er – just as a matter of interest, what do you feel about my taking Kit to a private hospital? Does it seem wrong to you?’

  ‘Mr Knelston,’ said Mrs Hartley, ‘if Kit was very ill, which he was, I wouldn’t blame anyone for going private. Not if it was urgent. We wouldn’t have the choice, mind, and casualty at Acton General isn’t too bad for waiting. But if it was li
fe or death, and I could see someone quicker, I would. I should think any parent would say the same.’

  ‘I do hope you’re right,’ said Tom. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Hartley. Thank you again.’

  He still felt dreadful, sick and shocked. He rang Josh again in desperation, told him what had happened. Josh was clearly horrified.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s it. If he got a photo … what were you doing?’

  ‘Carrying Lucy wrapped up in a bath towel.’

  ‘That’s good. And what did you say exactly?’

  Tom told him to the best of his recollection.

  ‘There was one – one particularly unfortunate thing –’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I said it was nothing to do with my constituents.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Josh.

  He warned Tom that it might be followed up by other papers. ‘And you could get more doorstepping, a whole mob might descend. If that happens, don’t go out unless you absolutely have to. Say “no comment” to any questions, and take the phone off the hook.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Tom. ‘Alice might need to ring me about Kit.’

  ‘OK. Well, you ring her every hour or so. Was Ned mentioned?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Oh, God. By name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But not by you?’

  ‘Er – no. He just asked if Ned had done the operation. I said it was none of his business.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ve written my piece, let’s hope it helps.’

  ‘Thank you, Josh, I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Josh coldly.

  He rang Alice, told her what had happened. For the first time she sounded less hostile. How long would that last?

  ‘Oh, God, Tom, how awful. I’ m – I’m sorry. But – how did they find out?’

  ‘You know the press. It’s their stock-in-trade, finding out.’

  ‘Well, I hope they don’t turn up here.’

  ‘Me too. Er – anyone outside now?’

  ‘Don’t know. Can’t see the street from here. I’ll go down the corridor.’ She was longer than he would have expected; when she came back she said, ‘There is a man lurking outside. And I went down to reception, asked if anyone had tried to come in, or asked for me. She said they hadn’t, so I told her if they did to send them away. Oh, Tom. I’m scared.’

  ‘Don’t be. No one will get in there. But I do think it could all get quite – difficult. Anyway, it’s happened, can’t turn the clock back.’

  She was silent.

  ‘Josh is writing an article about it too,’ said Tom.

  ‘What! How could he?’

  ‘Alice, he’s doing it for the best. If they all know, better a helpful article from him, defusing the situation. Which he’s promised.’ He sounded exhausted, drained of emotion. The nightmare evening had continued, confronting Donald, and a torrent of abuse down the phone.

  ‘Now, if you do have to go out in the morning, ignore anyone who tries to question you. And I’m afraid there could be quite a gang of them. But it would be better if you didn’t go out at all.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Alice?’ said Tom. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I agree. Not tonight, though.’

  ‘Of course not. But – soon. Maybe after the election.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and there was infinite bitterness in her voice, ‘the election. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Alice –’

  ‘Tom, we said not tonight.’

  ‘No, all right. Well, I’d better go. I’ll ring you later, just to check all’s well there. Don’t ring me. The children are fine, both asleep. Goodnight, Alice.’

  ‘Goodnight, Tom.’

  The chill between them could be felt even down the phone lines.

  Diana lay in the bath with a glass of champagne, struggling to recover from the emotional exhaustion of her hour with Tom. She had never thought to feel anything close to sympathy for him again, but looking at him, hunched over on the sofa, his head buried in his arms, hearing the deep sobs racking him, she did feel it, and it was with genuine tenderness that she said, ‘Oh, Tom, my darling Tom, I am so, so sorry,’ and moved to sit beside him, her arms round him, drawing him close to her, her own tears mingling with his.

  It had been the Laura part of the story that moved her; if Alice had flouted his wishes and taken Kit to a private hospital, that was fair game – and she felt something close to admiration for her, for refusing to be browbeaten by Tom’s politics and putting Kit’s needs first. But to tell him that she had lied to him about Laura’s death, that perhaps it had been needless, that without his obstinacy in refusing the better hospital, the greater skills, Laura and Hope could have been alive today, that was cruelty of the most savage kind. Wilful, dreadful cruelty, such as she would not have suspected the sweet-faced, gentle Alice capable of. It was the same kind of destructive cruelty, born of grief, targeted with savage accuracy, that had driven Johnathan to accuse her of aborting their baby; and she knew, from her own unhealed wounds, how truly dreadful the pain could be.

  He clung to her, sobbing, and they sat there for a long time; then he sat back and looked at her, took her hand and said, ‘I loved her so much, Diana. I would have died for her, willingly, and instead of that I killed her. If I had said yes to Jillie’s offer, Laura would be alive today. Laura and Hope, and—’

  ‘Tom, you don’t know that.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I do know it. There were signs that would have saved her, signs that were missed – I’ve looked it up since – that would have told them, alerted them, things that could, should have been done. She would have been safe those last dreadful days, and I left her in danger.’

  ‘You can’t be sure that the other hospital would have picked up on those signs, Tom, they—’

  ‘I do know.’ He was shouting now, angry with her and the platitudes she was offering, and she could see why.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said quietly, ‘and yes, I expect they would. And Tom, my heart breaks for you, it really does. But—’

  ‘I never really loved Alice,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘I can see that now. She was sweet and kind – or so I thought – and she loved me and it was the end of my loneliness, but what I felt for her was nothing, set against my love for Laura. I should never have married her, it was wrong …’

  ‘Maybe. But you did. And Tom, you must put Laura behind you, leave her in peace.’

  ‘I will, I will try.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘You’re very wise, Diana. You know, I often think I love you more than I love—’

  ‘Don’t say it.’ She put two fingers on his mouth. ‘You don’t love me. Well, only as I love you, as a very special, extremely sexy friend.’ She paused, then said with a glimmer of a smile, ‘Fine pair we’d make. Selfish, stubborn, devious – goodness, just be grateful you’ve been spared that, Friend Tom.’

  He managed a ghost of a grin then, blew his nose, and wiped his eyes.

  ‘You’re right. Of course.’

  ‘And think of the children we’d have had. Appalling. Whereas I’m sure yours are as nice as mine. Thanks to our spouses.’

  ‘Not sure about Charlie,’ he said. ‘The devil’s somewhere in his ancestry. Oh, Diana, how am I ever going to forgive Alice? Or trust her? Trust is such a big part of love.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ she said, ‘and you won’t forgive her, any more than I’ve forgiven Johnathan about – well, you know, the baby. But she has things to forgive too, don’t forget. Pretty bad ones. Like – well, you and me. She may not know about me – yet. But she still might find out. And then her trust in you will be gone.’

  ‘Well – yes, it would. And Josh knows, he saw me arriving at your house that night he was there too.’

  ‘Really? Well, he won’t tell. Much too nice. Sweet boy,’ she added rather absently.

  ‘No, but he’s a journalist.
Dangerous.’

  ‘Alice could find out any number of ways. The point is, you’ve done each other great wrongs. As had Johnathan and I. It helps, Friend Tom, in the recovery process, admitting that sort of quid pro quo.’

  ‘Oh, Diana. You’ve made me feel better. I know I’m not allowed to say it, but I do love you. There. I won’t do it again. Last time.’

  ‘Good,’ she said briskly. ‘Look – I think you’d better go now. Mrs Hartley next door will be bringing Charlie back, and I promised her I’d collect Lucy soon.’

  ‘And I have a hot date with a gossip columnist. How he’d love to get his hands on this story. But he won’t. Don’t worry.’ She stood up, and then bent to kiss him.

  ‘Goodbye, darling Tom. Be brave.’

  ‘I don’t have any choice.’

  ‘No. You don’t, I’m afraid.’

  Chapter 60

  ‘I think,’ said Leo Bennett, ‘we should go on to dance somewhere. You know what they say about dancing?’

  ‘What do they say about dancing?’ said Diana, meeting his eyes. What was it about looking into eyes that was so sexy? How did it convey you to some molten place deep within you, a place that moved and stirred and hungered? How did that happen?

  ‘They say it’s a vertical expression of horizontal desire.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  She would have been quite happy in that moment to have moved straight to horizontal, but she didn’t want him thinking she was a tart. She was sure his life was littered with women who had thrown themselves at him, and she had no intention of joining them. If any throwing of anyone was to be done, then it was to be him at her.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Where would you like to go? How do you like the Café?’

  ‘De Paris? Love it.’

  ‘OK. You never know, it might be one of Princess Margaret’s nights.’

  ‘Well, that would be exciting. I’ve never seen her.’