Getting Home

by Celia Brayfield

  Water, the river and the old docks let into it, occupied inconvenient tracts of territory, making the land too swampy to build tunnels. A thousand-year-old forest had been felled to site a new road bridge, but that was still work in progress. A tinny little railway, of Disneyland proportion but without the charm, carried passengers too lowly to use cars. The rest of those who had business to go east resigned themselves to sit in traffic jams in the concrete canyons which cut through the business district with nothing to do but gawp up at the cranes deliberating over the landscape, the skeletal dinosaurs of a new Neolithic age.

  Ted had some new toys: an in-car fax and anew stereo plus Trafficmaster facility which automatically cut in reports from the traffic helicopter patrolling the skies. He was longing for an excuse to use the fax, and the Trafficmaster had a knack of cutting in at the most exquisite moments in his brand new disc, Great Opera Love Duets No I. He passed time in traffic reading the manual for clues on how to disable it.

  His phone rang again as Faust was entreating Marguerite not to break his heart. Punching the stereo volume button with his right hand, he had the phone in his left to pick up the call and, since the traffic chose that moment to break into a crawly steered with his left elbow. In which ungainly pose a voice barked, ‘Ted. Chester.’

  ‘Chester! Good to—’

  ‘Ted, your wife’s been on.’ Failure to control a wife, a major corporate misdemeanour. He could hear the BSD’s annoyance over the fizzle and echo and tremor of the line, which suggested that he might be in flight at that very moment.

  ‘I’m sor—’

  ‘Do what she wants, Ted. We can’t risk any exposure on this.’

  ‘But there’s no—’

  ‘Just do it, Ted. Whatever it is will keep her quiet. You get me?’

  The line hissed violently for a second then cut. Ted was momentarily blinded by frustration. The dented rear end of an old Nissan loomed too large ahead and he stamped on the brake so hard his tyres squealed and the Discovery rocked on its mighty suspension like a storm-lashed dinghy.

  His mood of boyish defiance deflated, leaving him with the familiar dreary chafes of marital bondage. Around him the day greyed, the scummy pools lost their sparkle, the majesty of the cranes evaporated and such occasional architectural felicities as had already been constructed ceased to seem brave and brilliant and appeared merely bizarre.

  The new stereo incorporated a route planner. With the manual balanced on the top of the dashboard, he succeeded in asking it for a route to the Soho Hotel from Sun Wharf. It suggested a perfectly logical itinerary smack through at least two of the most notorious gridlocks in the city, estimated journey time, from Ted’s experience, seventy-five minutes minimum rather than the short half hour optimistically offered by the device’s programming. He would have maybe forty minutes to go round the site with Yuris, then have to get back in the car. The echo of Chester snarled in his ear. The wing mirror told him he no longer smiled.

  The tide in the affairs of men was about to turn. Allie could sense it. For a week, travelling to the Channel Ten studios from her hotel suite and back again, she had been looking at low water and no movement. She left Ted on a Wednesday; the Daily Post paragraph appeared on Thursday. On Friday, she got. Ted into line and John called from Hey! and suggested a date for the photo shoot. She spent the weekend at a new spa whose management were delighted to pick up her tab, checked into this hot new townhouse hotel in most fashionable residential street in the city and talked productively to the owner about making over the master bedroom at Church Vale with a wrought-iron four-poster and red velvet swags. In the new series of Family First, they would feature the spa’s new Stressbust Weekend programme, and consult the hotelier for tips on interior decoration. They might even do some interviews in the suite itself.

  On Monday, Allie asked herself what kind of bedroom Barbara Walters might have and charged her secretary to find out. The Courier carried a photograph of her contrite husband calling on her at her secret hideaway in a desperate attempt to patch up their marriage. And on Tuesday, with the two producers, she interviewed eleven potential new co-hosts for the show, four fresh from university, three actors, two established feces from cable, a reporter from a Gaelic language news agency and a kid with waist-length dreadlocks recommended by The boss’s Edinburgh contact.

  At first things did not go well. She somewhat favoured the last of the students, powerfully cute but capable of spelling media as midea, which irrationally enraged the senior producer. The others were respectively stoned, too slow and too tall; she felt a man over six foot made her look unnecessarily inauthoritative. The actors had hideous degrees of attitude and one of them had chosen to become blond, the cable kids had acne and looked too much like what they were, the Gael could not master comprehensible diction in any other language and nobody seriously expected them to hire the dread-lock kid although he half-heartedly hinted that he had been thinking of a crop.

  It was as the interviewing triumvirate sat slumped of front of their lunchtime sandwiches that Allie felt the first tremor in the ether. Her secretary brought in her messages and there at the top of the list was the name Stephanie Sands.

  ‘That prissy little thing.’ She turned the paper over, hardly believing what she read. ‘If she’s calling me here about the car pool I’ll … did she say what it was about?’ Even in the furthest reaches of her consciousness the possibility that this weak-minded woman might have a vengeful purpose in calling did not exist. The fact that she actually had induced the Sands family to buy a house now scheduled for demolition had not been entered her memory. At the time when Ted was fretting that the untimely sale in New Farm Rise might put the whole neighbourhood on the alert, the final route of the fatal, road was undecided. A little subliminal sophistry and the conclusion of events, now so dire for Stephanie, Stewart and Max, had never quite registered in her mind, even when emphasised by her husband.

  ‘She said you would know,’ her secretary replied. He was new for the new season, and very efficient in a brittle, campy way. ‘I didn’t like to press her; she sounded, you know, kind of confidential.’

  ‘Confidential. Well now. Get her back for me, there’s a dear.

  ‘Stephanie, darling,’ she cooed in expectation, straining triumphantly back in her chair. ‘So good to hear from you.’

  And then, in that silly, breathy voice Stephanie had, she heard, ‘Allie, darling, I feel so bad.’

  ‘Darling, no – why? You’ve nothing to feel bad about …’

  ‘Oh but I do. I’ve been so selfish and thoughtless and—’

  ‘Enough! I won’t hear another word. Why, you’re the sweetest woman that ever lived, everyone says so.’ Yes, it was happening, she was right, she’d been right all along and now she had her. Allie rolled her eyes around to make contact with the three men in the room. ‘But having your husband kidnapped – why, that’s just so stressful.’ The men froze like statues, awaiting the next words.

  ‘I feel I’ve been so pathetic, you know. You’ve been wanting me to come on your show, which is really such an honour, I mean, anyone would be just so pleased, so complimented, to be asked to do something like that, and there I was, I just couldn’t find the courage …’

  ‘Darling, I know. I know. That’s just the kind of person you are, you’re terribly sensitive …’

  ‘But that’s no excuse. I mean, it must have been so embarrassing for you.’

  ‘For me? Please, I’m not the important one here. It’s you, darling, and how you feel, and how poor little Max feels. I mean, this is a terrible time for you. That’s what’s important. That’s the only thing that could possibly be important.’ For the benefit of her silent audience, Allie mimed vomiting into the hotel wastebasket.

  The half-hushed voice prattled on. ‘It’s all just come to me today. You know, I think I must be adjusting to everything, to the kidnap and everything, because I’m starting to be able to get things in perspective now and I just feel so terrible about the
way I acted to you and, well, I’m just calling you now to say that if you still want me on Family First of course I’ll do it, and I am so, so sorry I couldn’t say this to you before, and I do hope you can understand …’

  ‘Darling, of course I understand, of course. Now are you really sure, because I know how much you’re feeling about this…’

  There was a noise over the line which Allie interpreted as a strangled sob. She gave the room a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘I’m sure if you’re sure,’ Stephanie assured her.

  ‘Let me come and see you right away.’ Allie jumped to her feet as if she were going to run out of the door directly and drive immediately over to Westwick. ‘You can be on the first programme of our new series. Look, let me come tonight, yes? We can talk about it then, woman to woman.’

  ‘Get a contract drawn,’ she commanded the producers in general as soon as Stephanie rang off. ‘I’ll take it with me. Let’s nail her down right now. I don’t want the silly bitch changing her mind on me.’

  Among the yellow leaves and burgundy-red fruits of the crab tree, the thrush was asleep, having stuffed himself with snails in anticipation of the winter. Westwick was enjoying a few days of Indian summer. The gardens were being allowed to grow away to perdition. Even at midday the rich sunlight penetrated the thinning leaves and caressed the warm turf. The leaves were turning gold in the heat. The seed heads of the arums had burst, flaunting their orange berries in the soft air. The red vine tendrils overreached decency, probing everywhere for access. Japanese anemones, white as moonlight, shone at the back of the border.

  ‘Now it’s your turn.’ Sitting on her terrace, Stephanie handed the telephone to Rod. He looked at her as if she were giving him a dead rat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘But what are you going to do when you get in the studio?’ Visually, the man was not made to express concern. His normal physical state was blatantly relaxed; Rod never fidgeted, he had no twitches, frowns or nervous mannerisms. By nature, his body fell comfortably into whatever posture was appropriate for the moment. Even the way he talked spoke of repose, plain sentences simply delivered without hesitation. This outer calm had now been replaced with a nervous tension so strong that his shoulders were paralysed with it and his hands were shaking. His face was lined with anxiety.

  Apprehensively, he took hold of the apparatus and stared at the keypad.

  ‘Its not what I’m going to do, it’s what we’re going to do. I don’t know yet,’ she told him. ‘I need more material. I need the surveyors Stewart used to go on record. But I do know that the only place Allie Parsons is vulnerable is in her own element. If we’re on screen, we can fight her. If we aren’t, we can’t even touch her. It’ll just be like we’re in some parallel universe.’

  ‘But what if she says no?’

  ‘She says no.’ Stephanie shrugged. ‘No harm done. But if she says yes – which she will – we can nail her hide to the barn door, hang her husband out to dry with the Environment Department and you’ll still have a new career.’

  ‘But I want my old career,’ he sighed, smiling to apologise for his weakness, subconsciously rubbing his tendon. The ache of it was getting comforting, like the hurt of a scab.

  ‘But does it want you?’ she demanded, amazed at the force of her own will.

  ‘No,’ he agreed, ‘it does not. Not with a busted ankle. And the career I had before that I can’t have while Sweetheart’s little.’

  ‘Well then,’ Stephanie prodded him unyieldingly ‘Make the call. Just hit the redial button.’

  ‘But suppose I can’t do that job? I’ve never done TV stuff, I can’t write scripts…’

  ‘You think the guys she has doing this job can write scripts? I’ve been there, I’ve been in that office, I know they’re idiots. For God’s sake, I did that job in my little way. How difficult can it be?’

  ‘But you’re intelligent …’

  ‘You’re intelligent. For Christ’s sake, Rod. The researchers write the scripts. Now dial.’

  He sucked in a deep breath and she watched his chest swell and the top stud of his shirt strain against the flesh.

  He stretched out his arms and pulled his shoulders around to release their stiffness and she watched the sinews in his neck flicker in the light. The tips of his eyelashes were actually infinitesimally curled, so the sun caught in them and his eyes had a starred look.

  The charge in the air between them hung like latent lightning. They looked steadfastly at the ground. Stephanie had not met plain physical attraction before. The passion she had witr Stewart was woven into their relationship and embroidered with romance. When they made love, they strengthened their feelings, nurtured their son, solved their problems, renewed their hopes and blessed their home. She missed that, she longed for that.

  Passion that was self-seeded, out of place but undeniable, was a new feeling. In the last few months, Stephanie had experienced many new feelings. She was coming around to the idea. That morning, Mr Capelli had reported the most thrilling development yet: the kidnappers had allowed Stewart to send her a message. Again, it had been an E-mail, a little miracle of printed words suddenly materialising from the computers mysterious depths. It did not say much, just simple words like love and patience. She had read it over and over, printed it out. The end of her ordeal was becoming possible, she was allowing herself to dream of it. But the end of something else was approaching with it, some dimension of her liberty.

  Staring at the ground, she saw a weed in a crack between the stones and leaned down to pull it up. At the same moment Rod suddenly got to his feet. For a split second her cheek was half an inch from his thigh, so close she could feel the blood heat glow through his jeans. Then he stepped back and she felt a hand heavy and warm on her shoulder.

  ‘You’re so patient,’ was all he said. Then he took the telephone away across the lawn and she made herself busy nipping the last dead heads off her roses and tuned her ears away from the conversation. Patient, for Heaven’s sake. She found she didn’t want to be patient. Her time was running out.

  Five minutes later she heard him cut the line. He came towards her, holding out the phone. ‘All done,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I’m going in for an interview tomorrow, God knows what I’m going to say.’

  She kissed him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  19. Only Twenty Minutes

  from the City Centre

  ‘I am very loyal to my wife,’ says Edward, ‘and looking back I can say that every year I’ve been with her I’ve loved her more. Allie is such a giving person, everything she does she puts in a hundred per cent.’ John Redfern paused at his keyboard and took another slug of coffee. For inspiration, he peered over the row of slides on the light box on the next desk. The boss shot, the one that was going to end up over a whole page, showed Allie Parsons in a white suit seated precisely on the end of a bed which was draped in red velvet. She leaned marginally towards her husband, who stood beside her. His right hand and her left were clasped.

  It was hard to figure out why Edward the husband wasn’t handsome; he was rail, lean, clean-cut, but there was just no spirit in him. He looked at the camera as if he were about to be shot. Maybe he was closet. Didn’t people say that after midnight the difference between a gay man and a straight man was about a couple of beers?

  ‘… and it can be hard to live with a woman who has that kind of commitment. It’s hard sometimes to share Allie with three million fans. But in the future I’m going to try harder to do that.’

  ‘I’ve told Ted he has to understand the role my work plays in my life,’ says Allie, who’s preparing for the new series of Family First due to air next week. ‘It’s the most important thing to me, next to my marriage and our three beautiful children. I feel a deep sense of responsibility to the show and to our wonderful audiences. They deserve to see the best of me, and that’s what I’m pledged to give them. It was easy for me to forgive Ted because I understand how stressful it can be for the people who love me. But now w
e’re back together, we’re happier than ever.’

  Redfern re-read the interview and considered it a masterpiece. He tapped out some headlines – Sexy secrets that make Allie Parsons’ marriage work. Family First star forgives her straying husband. I understand what drove him into another woman’s arms. Allie Parsons invites us into her lovely home to speak frankly of the problems in her marriage.

  He put through a call to his star at the studio. ‘I’m saying this is your home, is that OK?’

  ‘F-a-a-b, darling,’ she assured him. ‘God, I wish it was my home. I swear, as soon as I’m out of daytime I’ll move into a hotel for good. So much stress, running a big house, I can’t cope with it.’

  An extraordinary meeting of the Old Westwick Society took place at the house of Mrs S Sands, who acted as chair in the absence of Mrs Pike and kindly made her dining room available to the delegates, although on this occasion the delectable cakes for which they had been so grateful in the past were not forthcoming and hospitality was limited to coffee and biscuits.

  No apology for absence was received from Mrs Pike, nor from Mr E Parsons, or Dr R Carman or Dr J Carman, because the Secretary had not advised them of the meeting. ‘In the circumstances, which I’ll get on to in a minute,’ Stephanie announced, ‘I felt it inadvisable to tell them.’

  ‘Yes, and what are these circumstances, may we ask?’ Mrs Funk prompted her, her sunken face eager under the brim of a green felt cloche hat with a curled feather which tickled her cheek. Mrs Funk knew what was to come and she was spoiling for action. She was gripping her umbrella as Joan of Arc gripped her sword.

  There was an encouraging degree of shock. The faces turned attentively to her said that if this nice Mrs Sands was being underhanded, there must be a direly good reason.

  Stephanie reviewed her troops. Next to Mrs Funk was Jemima Thorogood from the Maple. Grove Society, a spare, androgynous figure often seen proceeding about Westwick on her traditional black bicycle with its wicker basket tied to the handlebars with leather straps. Next to her cowered two new town-planning students, recently enrolled in West Helford College. Rod and Topaz were beside them, serene and serious. The delegate of the Oak Hill Nature Triangle was reassembling his broken ballpoint with inky fingers, while the chair of his environmental sub-committee picked bobbles off the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Penelope Salmon, another Maple Grove good wife, sat expectantly upright, fingering her pearls, next to timid Sonia Purkelli. Mr Singh from the Grove Parade Trader’s Association was squaring off the copies of last meeting’s minutes. Major Lloyd-Richards, the treasurer, young for an. ex-officer, with a private income just big enough to keep a roof over his head and vodka in his freezer, floated gently on the afterglow of his 6 pm pick-me-up. Mrs Funk and her husband huddled beside him.