40 Love

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘It’s quite a big project, this hotel,’ she said conversationally. ‘But I expect it’s quite fun, getting it all going.’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Valerie, putting on the kettle. ‘I don’t really see much of it, being in London all the time.’

  ‘Don’t you come down here at weekends?’

  ‘Sometimes. But it’s a long way away. And I often have to work at weekends.’

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Annie.

  ‘I’m personal assistant to an advertising account executive,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Annie, none the wiser. ‘And is that a very demanding job?’

  ‘It is if you want to get on, like me,’ said Valerie. ‘A lot of girls treat it like, you know, a normal job. But if you want to get promotion quickly, you have to put in the extra hours. It pays off in the end.’ She uttered the words glibly, as though this was a message she had memorized.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Annie. ‘I suppose you’re right. And what are you aiming for?’ Valerie looked at her blankly, as she spooned instant coffee into mugs.

  ‘Well, you know,’ she said. ‘To get on. While I’m still young. Before I’m too far into my thirties. Before I settle down and have children.’ She giggled, rather embarrassedly. ‘You have to plan your career break in advance, you know. If you want to keep a toe on the career ladder. You can’t take time off just like that.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Annie. ‘I am impressed. I never thought ahead like that. I just went ahead and had children when I felt like it.’ She stared at Valerie, intrigued, as she poured hot water on the coffee. ‘I was never very good at planning ahead. When I married Stephen, that was it, I wanted a baby straight away.’ She laughed. ‘I expect you’re made of sterner stuff.’

  ‘Ooh,’ giggled Valerie. ‘Well, actually, I haven’t ever thought about it.’

  ‘But you obviously do want children? And your…’ she glanced at Valerie’s left hand, ‘your boyfriend?’

  ‘Ooh,’ exclaimed Valerie again. ‘I haven’t really had many boyfriends. I had one at university, but he went to live in the States. And what with my job, I don’t really have time to meet new people.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Annie.

  ‘Not really,’ fluted Valerie. ‘The modern girl doesn’t need a man. Men hold you back and let you down. A job doesn’t. I don’t need a man; I’m independent. If men ask me out,’ she giggled, ‘I usually say I’m too busy. That puts them in their place.’ Annie stared at her in slight puzzlement.

  ‘But you want children one day,’ she said.

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ said Valerie. ‘Just not quite yet. I want to wait till my career’s more firmly established.’

  ‘And before you have children, you’ll want to find a man?’

  ‘Ooh, yes,’ said Valerie, and giggled excitedly.

  ‘And are you so sure,’ said Annie bluntly, ‘that you’ll find one?’

  * * *

  Stephen and Don were standing in the room that would become the hotel lounge. It was a long, low room, with bare boards and recently plastered walls.

  ‘Well, this is a good-sized room,’ said Stephen cheerfully. ‘You should fit a lot of guests in here.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Don. ‘It’s funny, sometimes I forget that it’ll be full of guests. I’ve got used to it being empty.’

  ‘I suppose it’s quite a good investment just as a house,’ said Stephen.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Don. ‘It wouldn’t really matter if it never opened as a hotel. Apart from the fact I wouldn’t have any income!’ He gave a chortle. ‘But then, who needs money when you’ve got views like this?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Stephen, following Don’s gaze out of the window.

  ‘Thankfully I haven’t got a mortgage to worry about,’ said Don. ‘Not yet, anyway. I may need one later.’

  Stephen’s insides contracted at the word mortgage. He was dreading having to ask Patrick to rethink the deal they’d made; reduce the loan he was taking out; basically chicken out of the world of high finance. It looked so feeble. And he was sure Patrick would shake his head at the opportunity Stephen was missing. But he couldn’t help his nature, Stephen thought to himself. He was just more cautious than Patrick. And he was naturally nervous of debt. Which was all a mortgage was, really. Debt. It was a word that conjured up for him pictures of poorhouses, disgrace, wrecked lives. Ridiculous these days, when everybody seemed to have a mortgage. But that was just the way he was.

  ‘Of course, that rascal Patrick tried to convince me to take out all kinds of fancy loans,’ said Don amusedly. ‘You know what he’s like when he’s got you cornered.’ Stephen gave him a look of astonishment.

  ‘Not that I’m knocking him,’ said Don quickly. ‘I know he’s a friend of yours. No offence.’

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ said Stephen. Suddenly he wanted to hear more. ‘What sort of deal did he try to do with you?’ he said casually. ‘Just out of interest.’

  ‘Oh, he had some idea I should take out a mortgage on this place and let him make some money with it. I told him plain. I said that if he was about to start up a business like me, he’d be looking to decrease his debt, not increase it.’

  Stephen felt a sudden wave of reassurance. So there was someone else in the world who didn’t see a mortgage as a desirable accessory to life.

  ‘He nearly got me,’ said Don, grinning. Stephen’s heart started pounding.

  ‘What did you do?’ he said, trying to sound unconcerned. Don looked surprised.

  ‘Well, I told him I’d take it away and think about it. Then, of course, I called him up the next day and told him no thanks.’ He gave Stephen a beady look. ‘I never sign anything on the spot.’

  Stephen felt a wave of mortification rush over him. That’s what he should have done. He should have told Patrick he’d go and talk it over with Annie. If he’d done that, if he’d left it a day, he would have quickly come to his senses; and now he wouldn’t be in this mess. He looked at Don’s amiable, sunburnt face. Don would never have allowed Patrick to talk him into signing. Don would have been cautious and prudent.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ said Don. Stephen felt a stab of panic. He couldn’t let Don—or any of them—find out what a fool he’d been.

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. He smiled—unconvincingly he felt—and searched desperately in his mind for a way to change the subject. Don eyed him warily.

  ‘I wouldn’t like any of this to go back to Patrick,’ he said. ‘I have actually done some business with him since then—and I do think of him as a friend.’ There was a pause, and Stephen realized that Don was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said hastily. ‘I won’t say anything to him.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Don grinned toothily. ‘Aha. I think I hear our coffee coming.’

  The beaming smile with which Stephen greeted Annie as she came into the room bearing two mugs of coffee hid a thumping heart and a sensation of sickness. He felt despair at himself. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so thoughtless? How could he have done something as momentous as that without even consulting her?

  ‘Have some coffee,’ said Annie. ‘Careful, the mug’s hot.’ He smiled shakily at her, taking in her wispy brown hair, her cheerful, blue T-shirt, tucked into a floral, cotton skirt, her simple plimsolls. He looked down at himself, his old tweed jacket, unfashionable trousers, battered Oxford shoes.

  What had he been thinking of? It was laughable to think he could ever be like the rest of them: rich, worldly, fashionable. He should have known he was on dangerous territory as soon as he entered Patrick’s sumptuous study. He saw it clearly now. Patrick was the sort of person who would do something like take out a huge mortgage and invest it—and would probably make his money twice over. He would pick the right investments, time his manoeuvres well, use his hunches to good advantage. But Stephen was the type for whom such an enterprise was bound to go disastrously wrong, no matter who
was advising him, who was carrying out his investments. He saw, with fatalistic clarity, scenes of stockmarket crashes, company failures, panicked decisions. It was no good. If he had been the sort of person who was going to make a lot of money in life, he suspected he would have made it before now. And if he wasn’t, then it was probably better not to try. Better just to carry on as they were.

  ‘You’re looking very serious,’ said Annie, smiling at him. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, effecting a cheery voice. Please God, don’t let her find out what I’ve done; how stupid I’ve been. Please let me somehow sort it out on my own. He took a sip of heartening coffee and looked up, smiling gaily, distractingly at her. ‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘We were just admiring the view from here.’ She turned her head to look, as he had intended, out of the window, and exclaimed with pleasure. It was so easy to deflect her, Stephen thought, watching the back of her head. She was utterly unsuspicious; she would be the easiest person in the world to deceive. But far from reassuring him, this realization suddenly made him feel like weeping.

  * * *

  Charles woke to blinding pain and a weight of misery around his chest. A pulse in his temple throbbed; with each throb the brightness from outside seemed to pierce his eyelids more strongly. He didn’t dare open his eyes, but lay motionless, gradually locating other areas of pain in his body and wishing he could fall back asleep.

  He remembered everything. It was almost as though he had never fallen asleep; as though he and Cressida were, in his mind, still in the middle of their conversation. Or rather, their fight. Now, he realized—from the weight on the mattress; the taut line of the duvet; the light sound of her breathing—she was in bed beside him. She must have stayed closeted in the bathroom for a good hour. He had sat up for a while, waiting for her to reappear, then unwillingly crawled into bed.

  He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to see her. An unbearable combination of guilt and anger was creeping through his body. He had screwed Ella. Oh God. He had wanted to screw her again. He still did. Cressida had a right to hate him for that. But then—she didn’t know about it. And it was her financial arrangements that were going to ruin them. Ruin them completely.

  A vision of the future stretched ahead in Charles’ mind; a dark, black road of debts and demands; of uncertainty. Unlimited liability; unlimited uncertainty. If Mr Stanlake’s letter had stated the worst, if it had mentioned a definite total sum to be paid, then they would have had something to latch onto. They would have despaired for a while—and then set about tackling the situation. But the letter had mentioned only possible figures. Probable figures. Estimated figures. For how long would they wonder? How long before the next demand? The next set of estimated figures? The next smoothly ambiguous sentence, assuring them that the final demands might not be as large as expected—although, of course, they might be larger …

  It was the uncertainty that would be the debilitating, wearing, endlessly nagging factor in all of this. It was the not knowing; the continual threat; the knowledge that the sword was hanging over them—but might never fall. It was the hope. Perhaps worst of all was the hope. The tiny, insidious flicker of hope that it would all turn out much better than they had expected; that this time next year they would be laughing about it all. He could feel it now, unwanted, unlooked for: a flame of hope that he couldn’t get rid of; that would stay alive inside him, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

  Cressida gave a little sigh in her sleep, and Charles’ thoughts immediately changed track. A painful wave of resentment ran through him. This was his wife’s problem, he thought, as though realizing it for the first time. Hers. Not his. It was she who had received the letter. Dear Mrs Mobyn, it had begun. His own fucking name. His own fucking stupid wife.

  He lay perfectly still, trying to think rationally about it all. But nothing could stop the increasing surges of anger which filled his body with silent, furious, pumping adrenalin, driving reasonable thought from his mind. She was a Lloyd’s Name and she hadn’t told him. She’d allowed him to marry her, buy a house, behave as if nothing was wrong—while all the time, this disaster had been just waiting to happen. Everything they’d done in the last three years; all the money they’d spent; that holiday to Antigua … Charles could hardly bear to think about it. He’d been so confident, so sure of the future. If he’d only known. If he’d only fucking known. The stupid bitch.

  He was fairly sure—no, completely sure—she wasn’t lying when she said she hadn’t realized what being a Lloyd’s Name meant. Jesus, he should know she was thick. He was continually re-amazed at how completely—unbearably it seemed now—stupid she was. Even now, he was pretty sure she didn’t realize the full enormity of the situation. But that bastard Stanlake had obviously kept things deliberately quiet. Some bloody misguided loyalty to Cressida, no doubt. Thought Charles wouldn’t marry her if he knew she was a Lloyd’s Name. That must have been it.

  Charles stared straight up at the ceiling. The quiet room was driving him mad; he felt constricted and trapped inside the bed. So Stanlake had thought he wouldn’t marry Cressida if he knew she was a Lloyd’s Name. Well, perhaps he was right. Perhaps he would have taken another look at her insipid pale looks; listened one more time to her imbecile, brainless conversation—and got out as quickly as he could. To think he’d actually found her stupidity attractive. Jesus, if he’d known all this was going to happen …

  He felt suddenly wary, as though Cressida, slumbering next to him, could read his thoughts. He opened his eyes and swivelled them quickly towards her. But she was motionless, buried under a rounded duvet. Dust motes were dancing in the sun above her. Once upon a time he would have burrowed down underneath the duvet with her, gently waking her with little kisses and whispers, until she gave that sudden, delighted half-asleep giggle. Today he wanted her to stay asleep, away from his thoughts.

  He eyed her blond hair against the pillow, immaculate even in sleep. He should have guessed she was a Lloyd’s Name. Of course she was. She was exactly the sort of person who would be. If he’d only once thought to ask her, to check, to bring the subject up. But he’d taken to filtering out difficult subjects of conversation when he spoke to Cressida, just to avoid seeing that stupid frown of utter incomprehension.

  Oh God. He should have guessed; he should have known. And if he’d known, could he have done anything? Could he have prevented this thing from happening? Could he have stopped it all in time? Charles gazed at the ceiling. He didn’t, wouldn’t dare find out the answer. The discovery that, by acting then, he could have avoided this black pit of despair would be too much to bear. A million pounds. A million pounds. Charles whispered it quietly to himself. It didn’t really mean anything to him.

  The duvet rustled and Charles felt Cressida turning over. She opened her eyes and looked at him, at first with her normal sleepy early morning expression—then, as she recollected her thoughts, with sudden dismay. Her hand came up to her cheek and touched it lightly. She didn’t wince as her fingers met the skin, but her touch was tender. Of course, thought Charles suddenly. That’s where I hit her. He stared at Cressida, appalled. It was all so sordid. Her eyes scanned his face uncertainly, then she pulled back the bedclothes and slowly got out of bed. She tottered to the bathroom, a tall, willowy figure in her long, white nightdress. Charles watched her numbly. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, call out to her or go after her. She was part of the nightmare. Until she spoke, none of it seemed real; if he ignored her, perhaps it would all go away. He turned over, buried his aching head beneath his pillow, and stared blankly into the mattress, wishing himself into oblivion.

  * * *

  Caroline and Ella were having breakfast on the terrace. Caroline had made what she considered to be the supreme effort of getting up, making some coffee, heating up some croissants, and taking it all outside, only to discover that Patrick wasn’t hungry, Charles and Cressida were still in bed, Martina had fed the twins, and al
l the others had breakfasted early before going to church.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ she said to Ella, gesturing to the breakfast table, ‘you must tell them I did all this. I can’t believe no one’s here to appreciate it.’ She bit crossly into a croissant. ‘These are good, aren’t they?’ she added. ‘They’re from the new pâtisserie in Silchester. You must try it out before you go.’ Ella took a thoughtful sip of coffee.

  ‘I probably won’t be around long enough,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided to go to Italy sooner rather than later.’

  ‘But you’ve only just come back to England,’ objected Caroline.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Ella. ‘But I think I’ve seen enough of it.’

  ‘Seen enough of Charles, more like,’ said Caroline bluntly. ‘He had a bit of a nerve, didn’t he? Dragging you off for moonlit walks in the middle of the night? I would have told him where to go.’ Ella shrugged.

  ‘It was nice to see him. No really,’ she added, at Caroline’s incredulous look. ‘I needed to get him out of my system.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Well,’ said Ella, ‘I’m not sure he was still in it. But if he was, he isn’t any more.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Caroline. ‘As long as he didn’t sweet-talk you back into liking him.’ Ella’s mouth curved in amusement.

  ‘Perhaps he thought he did. He was very ardent.’

  ‘Ardent?’ Caroline stared at Ella for a few seconds. ‘Ardent as in … ardent?’

  ‘It was the middle of the night,’ pointed out Ella. With a deft movement she brought her legs up beneath her cross-legged on her chair, and shook back her hair. Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth and gazed at Ella with sparkling eyes.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask you my next question,’ she said in an excited voice, ‘because I don’t want to know the answer.’ She paused. ‘Except I do,’ she added hopefully.

  ‘It’s not important,’ said Ella.

  ‘How can you say that?’ demanded Caroline. ‘He’s married now.’

  ‘That’s not my fault.’