The Truth

by Peter James

  At twenty to eight, when Susan was just getting out of the shower, she heard the doorbell ring. Moments later John called up that Harvey and Caroline Addison had arrived.

  Volubly cursing their rudeness at being twenty minutes early, Susan tripped across the bedroom, trying frantically to get ready. Dark rings and bags under her eyes needed covering up, and she had to put some foundation and blusher on her pallid skin.

  Then, to her horror, she discovered that her favourite black cocktail dress, which she had laid out in readiness on the bed, was too small. Holding her breath, she determinedly squirmed into it and somehow pulled up the zip.

  But it was no good: it was tighter than a wet-suit and she pulled down the zip, admitting defeat. Determined to stay with black, she opted for her velvet trouser suit. But that was no good either – she couldn’t even close the hooks. Christ, how much weight have I put on?

  In the end she dug out an old A-line dress, which hung rather lifelessly but at least it was black and it wasn’t killing her. She put over the top a gold-sequined jacket, added some large gold earrings, a jungle print Cornelia James scarf, and was satisfied.

  By the time she got downstairs, the television writer Mark St Omer and his boyfriend, Keith, a lissom youth with a lock of dyed red hair that looked like it had been pinned to the side of his face, had also arrived, and were chatting up the bartender, who was now back from hospital proudly wearing a blue thumbstall.

  She went over to Harvey Addison and his wife, who were standing in a corner of the living room on their own, while John, in a white mandarin-collared shirt and charcoal suit, was now opening bottles of fizz in the kitchen for the bartender, who was unable to put any pressure on his thumb.

  ‘Susan, you look delightful.’ The obstetrician, his usual, cool, dandified self, tonight in a Prince of Wales check suit, pink tie and flouncing silk handkerchief, kissed her. Then Susan touched cheeks with his wife, Caroline, and admired her hand-embroidered black and silver waistcoat. ‘I’m so glad you like it,’ Caroline demurred. She barely opened her mouth when she spoke, as if the act of enunciation was too much of a chore. The effect was to make her sound bored with everything. ‘Cost me a fortune.’

  ‘Where did you get it?

  ‘A little shop in Beauchamp Place. I won’t tell you how much it cost,’ she added, in case Susan had missed her first comment.

  ‘No, don’t,’ Susan said, spoiling Caroline’s moment.

  Caroline turned towards her husband with a sickly, cooing smile that made Susan cringe. ‘You’re so good to me, aren’t you, darling? You never mind what I spend on clothes.’

  The obstetrician, preoccupied with his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, barely noticed what his wife had said. Susan saw him adjust the wave of his coiffed blond hair over each of his ears, then discreetly pucker his lips at himself. ‘What was that, darling?’ he enquired absently.

  ‘I was saying what a wonderfully generous husband you are.’

  ‘Ah.’ He gave himself another furtive glance in the mirror, then turned to Susan. ‘So sorry we arrived early. We have to go on to another bash.’ Then he added, in a massive name-drop, ‘At Kensington Palace.’

  ‘Glad you could spare us the time,’ Susan said, more acidly than she had intended. Although she did not care for Harvey Addison, she knew how important he was to John’s business. All the same the man and his wife were both irritating her.

  ‘Princess Margaret,’ Caroline said. ‘She throws a little pre-Christmas bash – we go every year.’

  ‘Good, well, just slip away when you have to.’ Susan heard the bell ring, and through the doorway saw a waitress letting in Kate Fox and her husband, Martin.

  But before she could break away to greet them, Harvey said, through a mouthful of sparkling white wine, ‘This really is a delightful little house.’

  Susan stared at him, her anger cranked up several notches. Considering that he lived in a cramped, ordinary little terraced house like a million other Londoners, who was he to call this place little?

  ‘Would you like a nut?’ she asked, scooping up the nearest bowl and offering them first to Caroline, who declined, then to the obstetrician. He took a greedy handful and shovelled them into his mouth all at once. ‘I’m so glad you like the house,’ Susan said, smiling at him as he chewed. A look of surprise, then horror, came across his face.

  ‘You’ve done so much work since we were last here, in the summer,’ Caroline said. ‘I do like the colour scheme – a very unusual shade of white. It’s so warm.’

  ‘It’s called Not Quite White,’ Susan said. She glanced at Harvey again and noticed, to her satisfaction, beads of perspiration on his brow as he chewed stoically on, then swallowed.

  ‘Quite spicy, those,’ he said, squeezing his watering eyes shut and almost draining his glass.

  Kate and her husband were approaching. Susan turned to greet and introduce them. More guests were arriving now – she could see the Abrahams, and behind them a man and woman she did not recognise. He must be the man from Microsoft John had invited. And she caught sight of Archie Warren.

  ‘Kate, hi!’ Susan said. And then she stopped in her tracks as the pain struck without warning, doubling her up in agony. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think straight, and closed her eyes, trying to shut it off.

  I’m losing the baby, she thought, opening her eyes again and staring helplessly at Harvey Addison. Oh, God, help me I’m losing the baby.

  The obstetrician sprang forward and knelt down. ‘Susan? What’s the matter? What is it?’

  She moaned, then cried out, unable to help it, ‘Oh … ohhh … ohhhh.’ It was getting worse. Nothing had ever felt like this before. Nothing.

  Addison’s face was close to her own – she could smell the nuts and the softer vinous smell of the alcohol on his breath.

  Then, just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, the pain began to subside. Within seconds it had stopped.

  ‘’S OK – I – I –’ She was gasping, crouched, aware that all eyes were on her.

  John was at her side. ‘Hon? You OK?’

  She nodded, still breathless, and said, ‘Yes.’

  Harvey had a hand on each of her shoulders and was staring at her face with deep concern. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently. ‘You’re OK, Susan. You’re going to be fine.’

  ‘The – the baby,’ she said. ‘I thought I was losing it.’

  Harvey’s eyes widened. ‘You’re pregnant?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How many weeks?’

  ‘Almost five months,’ she heard John say.

  ‘Nineteen weeks,’ she replied.

  ‘I didn’t know. You must lie down,’ Harvey said.

  ‘I’m fine, it’s gone now, I’ll be fine. They – they come and go. I have some pills upstairs.’

  Harvey and John guided her to a sofa and she sat down, drained. Harvey stood over her, looking concerned. His kindness was making her regret her earlier rudeness. She heard voices in the background, questions, John apologising, could sense the awkward silence that he was trying to break.

  ‘Tell me, Susan,’ Harvey said quietly, squatting so that he was face to face with her, ‘where exactly was this pain?’

  Susan told him, then related what Miles Van Rhoe had told her, that it was a tiny cyst, nothing to worry about.

  ‘Miles Van Rhoe is the best there is, Susan, but you shouldn’t be getting pain like that, not from a small cyst, unless there’s something –’ He checked himself.

  She looked at him anxiously. ‘Something what?’ She heard the doorbell ring again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t meddle.’ Then he frowned. ‘When did you last see him?’

  She thought. ‘On Tuesday.’

  ‘And you’ve told him about these pains?’

  ‘Yes.’

  John, who had walked across, interrupted. ‘Van Rhoe hasn’t seen her have one of these attacks. I don’t think he has any idea how bad they
are.’

  Susan was aware that she had to get up and stop disrupting the party. Harvey tried to restrain her. ‘You must rest, lie down.’

  She shook her head and hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’ll be fine now.’ She smiled. ‘Right as rain.’

  Just before Susan plunged into the mêlée of her guests, Kündz in his attic, watching anxiously on channel 4, wished he could hold Susan and comfort her. He could feel all her pain, and his remoteness from her now felt worse than ever. He felt envy, too, for this glamorous party that revolved around her, envious of John, envious of them as a couple, and a pang of jealousy each time Susan kissed another guest. It was torture to watch her suffer, but it was no less torture to watch her enjoy herself.

  Then he saw Harvey Addison put his arm on her shoulder and heard him say, quietly, ‘Susan, we’re flying off to the Caribbean tomorrow until the first week in January. I don’t want to tread on Miles Van Rhoe’s toes, but if you’d like a second opinion at any time when I’m back, please feel free to call me.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  It was like a finger being drawn lightly across her insides. She was being stroked. Bump was stroking her.

  It was dark; the clock beside the bed told her it was 3.52 a.m. John, lying on his back, was snoring lightly, but she didn’t mind, she liked the sound tonight. Some nights it annoyed her but tonight she found something reassuring and cosy about it.

  The baby stroked her again.

  She whispered, ‘Hi, Bump, how you doing? Enjoy the party?’

  As if in response there was another stroke, and this was a definite movement, a finger, tracing lightly, right the way across her abdomen. Bump was doing fine, really enjoyed the party. And now Bump was trying to tell her something, and she thought it was trying to tell her, I love you, Mom.

  ‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

  It was raining outside, a light patter, and a siren screamed somewhere, way off. After the terrible start, the party had gone well and she was now unable to sleep, still on a high from it. Everyone had been so thrilled to learn of her pregnancy, and they’d all congratulated her, even the man from Microsoft and his wife, whom she’d never met before. And Kate Fox had wagged a finger at her, and said, ‘I knew, I guessed, all that baloney you gave me about wanting to borrow the book on pregnancy for a friend, indeed!’

  Susan could not remember ever feeling so proud, so fulfilled, in her life.

  It was 11 December. Next Saturday Bump would be five months old. April 26 was looming up. Bump stroked her again, Bump knew this.

  Suddenly John stirred. ‘Wassertime?’

  ‘Ten to four.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache.’

  ‘Probably the brandy. Why don’t you take a couple of paracetamol?’

  He grunted. ‘Think it went all right?’

  ‘Yes, I do. It went very well. Archie’s Pila is pretty possessive, isn’t she? The moment she saw him talking to any other woman she marched across and stood right by him. I noticed it a couple of times. I thought that man from Microsoft was nice – and his wife.’

  ‘Tom Rockney’s a good bloke, we’re going to get that deal. God, your friend Kate Fox’s husband – Mervyn – he’s a waste of space.’

  ‘Martin. He’s shy.’

  ‘He’s brain dead. He’s less interesting than watching paint dry. He sat in a corner the whole evening, stuffing his face and drinking, didn’t say a word to anyone. I tried introducing him to people a couple of times and he stood there and gawped at them. What the hell does she see in him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Then, teasing, she said, ‘Do you think people wonder what you and I see in each other?’

  ‘At least we’re reasonably normal.’

  ‘You think so?’ she asked.

  ‘Glurr,’ he replied. Then he made a further series of inane noises. ‘Wrrogggh, glummmm, blingggg, glu glu glarp, glaarrrrrp.’

  She giggled. ‘What’s that meant to be?’

  ‘An intelligent conversation with Martin Fox.’

  ‘How does an unintelligent one sound?’ Then suddenly Bump moved sharply and she let out a tiny squeal.

  ‘Wassermatter?’

  ‘Bump’s moving. Want to feel?’ She took his hand and laid it on her abdomen. ‘Can you feel it? Hi, Bump, want to say hallo to your d–’ She clammed up, but too late.

  John removed his hand. ‘Perhaps he’d like to call Mr Sarotzini, then?’

  Susan lay in silence, cursing herself for this stupidity. She didn’t know why she’d said it, it had just came out. ‘I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t mean –’

  He climbed out of bed and, without saying anything, padded through to the bathroom. The light came on and then she heard the rustle of paper, the sound of capsules being popped free from their wrappers. Then running water.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, when he came back to bed.

  ‘Are you? You were bloody revelling in it tonight.’

  ‘I was just trying to act the part,’ she said quietly, trying to defuse his growing anger. ‘It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘How do you think I felt? Do you think it was easy for me, watching you? Playing Mr Mighty Proud Dad-To-Be?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. It’s hard for both of us.’

  ‘Bullshit. You were loving it, you were lapping it up.’

  She lay in silence. He was right, that was the problem. She hadn’t thought about Mr Sarotzini all evening. She’d only thought about how good it felt being pregnant, being congratulated, feeling like a normal, fulfilled woman. How good it felt for once not having to justify, in conversation after conversation, why she and John had decided not to have children, and for once not envying all the other women who did have children.

  There used to be a slang expression she’d read in books, terming women who were pregnant as being in the club. And that was how it felt now. That she had joined a hugely warm and welcoming club.

  She thought back again to Wednesday afternoon with Mr Sarotzini and his gruesome friend with his secret art haul, Esmond Rostoff, and shuddered.

  She’d tried to tell John her concerns that night when she’d got home, but he hadn’t wanted to know. What happened after the baby was born was not their problem, he told her.

  He was wrong. And of course he would be, because it wasn’t his baby. How could he possibly understand what she felt?

  John suddenly said, ‘Harvey’s concerned about you. He’s going to be away until after the New Year, but he said if you still have these pains then, he’ll have a look at you. I’m going to call his secretary on Monday and get a date booked in. If the pains have stopped, then fine, we can cancel.’

  ‘John, Miles Van Rhoe is the best obstetrician in the country – Harvey said so himself, tonight.’

  ‘Harvey says you shouldn’t be in pain like this. He thinks Van Rhoe has missed something.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be going behind Van Rhoe’s back?’

  ‘Then tell him, if you feel that way. Tell him you’re going for a second opinion. People have second opinions all the time, there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m not having you suffer like this, I want Harvey to see you.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, reluctantly.

  Archie was having a quick cigarette outside the squash court before they went on. On the other side of the wall John could hear the squishing, thwacking, squeaking of the game that was ending.

  ‘Great party,’ Archie said.

  ‘Enjoyed yourselves?’

  ‘Yah. And great news about Susan – you’ve been keeping that under your hat.’

  ‘We’ve been a bit worried about the pregnancy,’ John replied. ‘Susan didn’t want anyone to know until – you know –’

  ‘Until she was out of danger? Sensible. Going to change your life a bit, having a child. Thought you were always against the idea of breeding. What changed your mind?’

  ‘It just sort of happened,’ John mumbled.

  Archie sucked at his cigarette and grinned. ‘Oh,
yes?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Sure you didn’t cave in under her onslaught? Susan’s always struck me as being pretty broody.’

  While John was struggling to produce a suitable reply, Archie changed the subject. ‘Hey, this Vörn Bank of yours.’

  ‘Yuh?’

  The door of the squash court opened and two men came through, dripping with sweat. ‘All yours,’ said one.

  Archie crushed his cigarette out on the ground. ‘Weird City.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ John followed him onto the court.

  ‘Chap called Kündz? Know him?’

  John shook his head and slipped a sweat band onto his wrist. ‘No, who’s he?’

  ‘Their man in London. Came into the office today, wanted to check us out, do the royal tour. This guy, I’m telling you, is seriously flaky.’ He shook his head.

  John, worried now, said, ‘In what way?’

  Archie unzipped his racquet. ‘This Vörn Bank is privately owned, very old family business, God knows how old, centuries – Switzerland’s full of them. They’re quiet, discreet, low profile to the point of invisibility. The Vörn only deals in blue chip, nothing speculative.’

  ‘I thought your bond market was speculative,’ John said.

  ‘Some and some. So you haven’t come across this Kündz?’

  ‘No, I’ve only ever dealt with a Mr Sarotzini.’

  ‘The head honcho. Or one of them. Oliver Walton, my colleague who deals with them, says he doesn’t know who the fuck runs them. They take this secrecy crap to the point of paranoia. You know, they’re a substantial client now and we don’t even have a phone number for them. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Sounds familiar. Don’t phone us, we phone you.’

  Archie raised an eyebrow. ‘OK, well, here’s the weird bit. This Kündz character, he’s six foot four, built like an American quarterback, and he looks like a goon, right? He looks like a fucking night-club bouncer, not a banker. He’s wearing a shiny suit, rocks on his fingers, he shakes my hand, then spouts poetry at me.’

  ‘Poetry?’

  ‘In Latin.’

  ‘You’re serious?’