The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘My father,’ she said.

  By seven they had drunk the entire bottle of champagne and two glasses more each; Kirsten stood up slightly unsteadily, took his hand and pulled him up, laughing.

  ‘I have to go. I’ve got to mug up on some stuff before tomorrow.’

  ‘What happens tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, I’m actually being allowed to draft a press release all on my own.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Oh, some new shops in the Manchester shopping mall. Nothing very exciting.’

  ‘I see. Well, everyone has to start somewhere. Anyway,’ he said, carefully casual, remembering sharply his instinct that there was a story somewhere here, ‘it was very nice of your father to give me those quotes. Since he seems to have taken against publicity rather.’

  ‘He has?’

  ‘Yes, I was going to do a big profile on him, but he pulled out.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, he’s like that. Irrational. Awkward. I should know. Only I didn’t say that. Oh God, I’ve had too much champagne. Sam would kill me if she’d heard me.’

  ‘Kirsten,’ said Gray, ‘I swear I didn’t hear you say that. And I certainly won’t tell Sam.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘And is it really true he’s given out a directive about interviews recently? Not giving them.’

  ‘Yeah, he has. I was surprised he gave you that quote today, actually. And he is on an even shorter fuse than usual. Lot of serious shouting going on in the office. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that either. You did mean it, didn’t you? About not telling anyone what I said?’ It was rather touching, the first sign he had seen that she had any insecurities. Or any sense of loyalty to her job.

  ‘I did indeed. God’s honour.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you believe in God.’

  ‘Well – I’m not sure. Probably not. I won’t tell anyway. What about you?’

  ‘You mean do I believe in God? Yes,’ she said, suddenly and surprisingly sober. ‘Oh yes, I’m afraid I do.’

  ‘So God yes, love no.’

  ‘That’s about right.’

  Interesting; she was altogether much more interesting than he would have imagined. ‘Well, anyway, I do promise. This is all off the record.’

  ‘Sam says nothing you say to any journalist is ever off the record.’

  ‘Sam’s right. Usually. But in this case, she’s wrong. Promise.’

  ‘Well, thank you. And for the drink. It’s been fun.’

  ‘My pleasure. I hope I’m forgiven too. For what I said. About Sam and your dad.’

  ‘Of course. It was a pretty jerky thing to say, but I won’t tell anyone.’

  And she was gone.

  ‘How’s your mother, Oliver?’

  It was obviously one of Bard Channing’s days for being nice to the human race, thought Oliver; he had already told Sue in Reception she looked very pretty, and instructed Pete Barbour to take a long weekend.

  ‘She’s not very well, Mr Channing. She’s had an awful bout of her arthritis, so her hands are really bad, and her back hurts her a lot. The consultant says she could benefit from some warmth, so – ’

  ‘What sort of warmth?’

  ‘Well, you know, sunshine. That sort of warmth.’

  ‘I see. Well, she must have it. If it’s going to do a lot for her. Now if you need any help – ’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Mr Channing,’ said Oliver, enjoying for once not having to ask, to take, to be grateful, ‘but Mrs Booth, you know, has offered us one of her timeshare places and – ’

  ‘Mrs Booth?’ said Bard. ‘Mrs Booth! What the hell has it got to do with Mrs Booth?’

  ‘Well, I was telling her about Mum,’ said Oliver, ‘and what the doctor had said, and – ’

  ‘When were you talking to Mrs Booth, for God’s sake?’ said Bard, his voice quieter suddenly, very intense, and his eyes were very dark, probing on Oliver’s face. Oliver met them steadily. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Last week, Mr Channing. When I had lunch with her.’

  ‘You had lunch with Teresa Booth? What the hell for?’

  ‘She asked me,’ said Oliver.

  ‘I hardly imagined you asked yourself. What did she want?’

  ‘She didn’t want anything, much. She just wanted to talk to me.’

  ‘About?’

  Oliver began to get irritated by this. It was nothing to do with Bard Channing whom he had lunch with. The irritation gave him courage. ‘About all sorts of things,’ he said, his voice very level. ‘She was interested in our family, about my dad – ’

  ‘Your father? What in God’s name interested her about your father?’

  ‘Mr Channing,’ said Oliver, ignoring with an effort the twitching muscle in Bard’s forehead, the underlying throb of temper in his voice, ‘I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t see why she shouldn’t be interested in my father. Mr Booth worked with him, you both did, he helped found the company and – ’

  ‘And what were you able to tell her about your father?’ said Bard, levelling his voice with almost visible effort.

  ‘Well, not a lot, obviously. But she wants to go and see Mum, talk to her about him, she’s got a cousin who knew him apparently, and – ’

  ‘Teresa Booth is going to visit your mother?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to arrange a Sunday.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a silence. A further effort at restoring normality to the voice, the face. ‘Well, I’m sure that will be very nice for them both. I hope she doesn’t upset your mother.’

  ‘I’m sure she won’t, Mr Channing. She seems very kind indeed to me.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said Bard, ‘and I hope you’re right. I can only urge you to think about it quite carefully, Oliver. Your mother is a very sensitive woman. Sensitive and frail. It might not be the best idea for her to start reliving the past with a total stranger.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be there,’ said Oliver, ‘and anyway, Mrs Booth isn’t quite a total stranger. And Mr Booth has always been terribly kind to Mum.’

  ‘Is he joining in this visit?’

  ‘No, I don’t think he is,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Well, remember what I said. Please. And meanwhile, I don’t want you going off to some strange place of Mrs Booth’s that none of us knows anything about. You borrow my house in Greece, all of you. I have staff there, they can look after you, it will be far less stressful for your mother. I’ll arrange transport the other end. All right?’

  ‘Well, I – ’

  ‘Oliver, please don’t argue. Your mother’s health is too important. I’ll get on to her personally this morning, tell her what we’ve agreed. And you’d better get on with your work. You’ve wasted enough time this morning already.’

  He disappeared into his office, slamming the door, shouting for Marcia. The good mood was obviously over.

  Oliver looked after him. He’d hated every minute of that conversation. Channing had been completely out of order. What the hell did it have to do with him who he talked to? And now they’d all have to be grateful again. Because he knew perfectly well what his mother would want to do.

  He turned to go back to his own office, and saw Kirsten Channing striding along the corridor behind him; she smiled at him rather distantly, didn’t speak. The arrogance of that reinforced Oliver’s misery, his hostility to the whole Channing clan.

  ‘Shit,’ he said aloud, shutting his own door behind him, ‘shit, shit, shit.’

  Babies were meant to grow. That much Francesca knew for sure. Some grew faster than others, of course, and Jack had grown very fast, so it was not really a fair comparison. But Kitty just wasn’t growing at all. She had put on just half a pound in the past month: less than two ounces a week. It just wasn’t enough; it was scary. She didn’t care what Nanny said, what the GP said, what Bard said; she was going to take her to see a specialist.

  She dialled her mother’s number: Rachel sounded distracted.

  ‘Yes darling
, what is it? Is it important, because if not could I ring you back? I’m just going out – ’

  ‘It is important, yes. But if you’re in a hurry I’d rather wait. I don’t want you not concentrating.’

  There was a silence, then Rachel said, ‘Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll only be an hour. I’ve got to go and see someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh – only my solicitor.’

  Her tone was just too casual; Francesca was suspicious.

  ‘What about? Anything serious?’

  ‘Oh, good heavens no. Just some tax things.’

  ‘Tax? Are you sure you mean your solicitor?’

  ‘What? No, of course you’re right, I mean my accountant. Anyway, darling, I’ll call you back. If it really can wait.’

  ‘It can.’

  She was up to something. No doubt about it.

  It was two hours before she rang back: ‘Sorry, darling. Took longer than I thought.’

  Francesca, who was by now engrossed in working the brochure for a big charity auction she was involved in, was irritated by the delay. ‘Doesn’t really matter. Fortunately. You’re getting awfully hard to get hold of, Mummy. Last week I tried all day, Wednesday it was. Where were you then?’

  ‘Oh – goodness knows. I can’t remember. I’m very busy with my charity at the moment, Francesca. The one down in Devon, you know? The convent.’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes of course.’ She tried to sound interested, knew she’d failed, in her mother’s charities. ‘Anyway, I want to talk to you about Kitty. She’s just not very well, she keeps on and on not being very well, and I think I’m going to take her to a paediatrician.’

  ‘That sounds sensible. What sort of not very well?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. She’s always got a cold, and she’s fretful, she doesn’t feed very well, she still doesn’t. And she’s not gaining weight, that’s what’s really worrying me.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be if she isn’t feeding.’

  ‘No I know, but – ’

  ‘She is very small. What does your doctor say?’

  ‘Oh, he says she’s fine. And Nanny says she’s fine, but I just know she’s not. So if you were me, would you get another opinion? I mean how does she seem to you?’

  ‘She’s very small, as I said. And not very happy. On the other hand, she looks all right. But if you’re worried, darling, I should get another opinion. Just don’t hesitate.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say. I just wanted to know you didn’t think I was being neurotic.’

  ‘Francesca, when it comes to children and their health, you can’t be neurotic enough. In my not very humble opinion.’

  ‘Thank you. I will, then.’

  Francesca didn’t tell Bard she was taking Kitty to a paediatrician; she didn’t tell anyone except her mother. She couldn’t face the fuss. Nanny continued to be emphatic there was nothing whatsoever wrong with Kitty, whenever she asked her; pointed out that Dr Hemmings, who had looked after all the children, pronounced her perfectly healthy, as had the paediatrician at the Princess Diana hospital where Kitty had been born (although Nanny clearly set rather less store by that judgment, the paediatrician in question being under forty and female), and she was in any case altogether opposed to what she called meddling medics: all a healthy baby needed, she said extremely frequently, was plenty of fresh air and sleep, and a good routine. Since taking Kitty to Harley Street would interrupt the routine, expose her to some rather unfresh air and keep her from sleeping, she would certainly not endorse the idea; and moreover in the event of such an event taking place, she would insist not only on accompanying Francesca but on giving the consultant her own view of the situation, at some length. It seemed best therefore not to tell her.

  As for Bard, he found anything to do with illness deeply distasteful; it disturbed him horribly. Francesca had learned very early in their relationship to keep extremely quiet about any minor ailments, and in the case of anything more major to retire to bed and instruct Bard to stay away. He was, for a creature of rampant and uninhibited sexuality, interestingly wary of the normal female functions, and hated any reference even to something as sanitised as PMT; he had been in a permanent state of tension as the births of the children approached lest he might find himself in some way involved, and insisted on Rachel sleeping at the house for the final few weeks of each pregnancy so that she and not he could be with Francesca up to the time she was safely in her room at the hospital. He found the notion of a father being present at the birth not merely disagreeable, but repellent; ‘I’m sorry, Francesca, but I’d rather die,’ he said simply, and she had laughed and said that would be counter-productive and she really didn’t mind at all.

  Whether this attitude was produced, as Francesca thought, by the traumas of Marion’s death and the more distasteful aspects of Pattie’s alcoholism, or as Rachel opined, by over-zealous potty training by Jess – ‘Very Freudian, Mummy, I’m surprised at you’ – it did not greatly trouble her.

  And so she told Nanny that she was going to the hairdresser and leaving Kitty with her mother while she did so before joining her for lunch; Nanny, her face taut with disapproval, said she would take Jack to Kensington Gardens and then out to lunch. ‘It’s so important in my view he isn’t made to feel jealous of his sister,’ she said, as if Francesca could not have been expected to think of such a thing of her own accord. ‘Although I really think Kitty would be a lot better staying here with me. She’s getting another cold, and she’s been crying a lot this morning.’

  ‘I know, Nanny,’ said Francesca humbly, ‘but my mother does like to see her, and she’s in today, so it seemed – ’

  ‘Well, I suppose you know best, but I hope your mother won’t be taking her anywhere unsuitable,’ said Nanny. She had a deep mistrust of Rachel.

  ‘Nanny, I do assure you my mother won’t take Kitty anywhere at all, never mind unsuitable,’ said Francesca briskly (wondering precisely what kind of place Nanny had in mind: Raymond’s Revue Bar perhaps, or a quick drive round the red-light district at King’s Cross?). ‘I’ll be back at teatime. Could you see if you could get Jack’s hair cut if you’re going to be near Harrods? It’s a bit long.’

  ‘Mrs Channing? Mr Lauder will see you now. If you go down the corridor, first door on the right – ’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Francesca. Her legs felt suddenly weak as she stood up, and the pseudo-drawing room that was Harley Street’s version of a waiting room seemed a huge space to cross.

  She was with Mr Lauder a long time; he was cheerfully pompous, began by making her feel foolish as she outlined the baby’s problems, her slowness to gain weight, her general fretfulness, her tendency to be cold, and then became more gentle, told her to undress the baby so that he could examine her, whereupon Kitty promptly started to scream and Francesca had to feed her to quieten her, particularly so he could listen to her chest.

  He was an especially long time doing that; Francesca stood watching him, looking at the stethoscope, so big and cold and somehow threatening on the tiny, white chest, holding Kitty’s little hands, trying to keep her mind blank, herself under control, trying not to ask foolish questions, to pester him, to break the chill silence in which he listened so carefully to what must be in any case the tiniest, faintest sound, watching his face for clues, for anxiety, for tension, for a reassuring smile, and finding none of them.

  ‘Mrs Channing, if you would like to dress Kitty again, we can have another chat.’

  He was very gentle, very sweet. He said there was a slight, very very slight, almost undetectable, murmur in Kitty’s heart. ‘Terribly easy to miss, especially in a new-born. It’s a sound like rushing water. I’m a bit surprised your GP didn’t – but still. Never mind. You did the right thing in coming to me. Don’t look so frightened, Mrs Channing, it really isn’t very serious.’

  ‘But what does it mean?’

  ‘Well it could indicate something trivial. Or more serious. That’s all I can tell you at the mom
ent. And it very probably isn’t anything in the least serious. Not seriously serious, I mean. It’s quite common in babies, far more common than most people realise, and I would advise you to – ’

  The voice went on. Francesca sat listening to it, hardly aware of it as a voice, hearing only the words, words which confirmed what she had always known, always feared, that Kitty was ill, was damaged, was not a strong, perfect baby at all. What would have happened, she thought in a great surge of fierce protective rage, what would have happened if she had believed them all, had shut up? If she had left her, had abandoned her to them and their foolish, ridiculous reassurances, her little frail, tender, trusting creature, not quite whole, not strong enough for the world, for life. How bad would things have had to be before anyone had listened to her? Would the little heart have begun really to stumble, unequal to its daunting task? If Bard or Nanny Crossman or Dr Hemmings had walked in at that moment, she would have flown at them, attacked them physically, wanted to hurt them, damage them, as her daughter was hurt and damaged –

  ‘So I think the next step, just to be quite sure we’re onto the right thing, is to do some tests. An ECG and some X-rays, and something called an echo cardiogram.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Francesca, tryng to speak normally, to fight the panic out of her voice.

  ‘Well, it’s another type of X-ray. A bit like an ultrasound. It will tell us a lot more about her heart and how it’s working. In the meantime, try not to worry too much. It almost certainly isn’t anything very serious. Now if you’ll just bear with me a moment, I’ll arrange all that – ’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Right,’ said Bard, ‘let’s run over this again, shall we? You want me to buy your house?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Liam, ‘that’s right.’

  ‘Of which more than its value belongs to the building society.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then you’ll pay me rent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bard sat back in his chair and looked at him, an expression of acute distaste on his face. Liam wondered if his own was as apparent. He hoped it was. He had agreed finally to go through with this, to perform the actions, say the words, had been forced into it by the sheer force of Naomi’s will; but that was all. He would not go further, profess humility, express remorse. He knew, had he done so, he might have succeeded; but in his own estimation he would have failed. His hatred for his father was too important to deny, even in self-interest; like love, it must not be betrayed.