He sat back himself, and waited; waited for the anwer, waited for it to be over, waited to be able to leave, to report back, to say to Naomi, there you see, I told you, no good, no point, no help, no humanity.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Bard, pushing himself away from his desk, tipping up his chair, looking at Liam with brilliant, thoughtful eyes. ‘I can’t see anything in that for me. Can you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Liam. ‘It’s an extremely nice house.’
‘But I already have two extremely nice houses. Three, if you include the one in Greece. I really don’t need another. And anyway, I’m not going to be able to live in yours. Am I?’
‘I would imagine not. No.’
‘How did you get into this mess, Liam?’
Oh Christ; he was going to do it, demand his due, tighten the screws, squeeze the blood from the stone.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, the recession. And – ’
‘Ah, yes, the recession. Such an excellent scapegoat. Such a splendid excuse. Do you know anyone who has not been affected by the recession, Liam?’
‘Yes of course I do.’ There was no escape; it had to be gone through.
‘Well then. I rest my case.’
There was a silence, then Bard leant forward again. ‘I’ll tell you how you got into it. Bad judgment. Overspending. Letting your wife keep you, while you carried on with that absurd wank of a profession of yours. How much did you earn last year, Liam? Twenty thousand? Fifteen, maybe? Or even less than that? Yes, I rather thought so. Have you considered getting a proper job, rather than coming to me?’
‘Yes,’ said Liam, ‘actually, I’ve applied for several. But it’s not easy. As you really should know.’
‘Yes,’ said Bard, ‘I do know. On the other hand, neither is it easy for me, Liam. As you in your turn should know. Whatever your misapprehensions. It isn’t easy for anyone at all. Making money, making your way, is never easy, and keeping it is even less so. As you have, rather suddenly it seems, discovered.’
Another silence; Liam waited.
‘So it’s your turn, is it, now? Your wife’s failed you, and you’ve actually got to deliver. Only instead of doing it yourself, getting out there, working your own scrawny arse off, you come whining to me, with your hand out. God help me.’
‘I don’t exactly have my hand out,’ said Liam (don’t lose your temper, Liam, don’t give him that satisfaction). ‘You seem to have failed to appreciate the fact that I’m offering you a business deal.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ said Bard, ‘spare me that, please. A deal! A house I don’t want, at a price I wouldn’t pay. No thank you. I’ve done a lot for you, Liam, given you a great many advantages. You always manage most conveniently to forget them. Now it’s your turn. Get off your backside, and sort your own life out. I’m not going to do it for you. If I did, I’d be failing you.’
‘Fine,’ said Liam, standing up. ‘I’d hate you to fail me. You never have, of course, have you?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, as you perfectly well know, that you’ve failed me all my life.’ Shit, he hadn’t meant to start on this. Stop it, Liam, stop it. Not a good idea, not clever.
‘Oh Jesus help me,’ said Bard, ‘are we to hear all this again? The rejection, the wicked stepmothers, the rival siblings …’
He managed to make it all sound so trivial, of so little importance. That was, as it always had been, the most painful thing. Liam turned his back on him and walked out of the room without another word.
On the way downstairs, Liam felt violently ill: he thought he was going to pass out, throw up. He made for a chair and put his head between his knees; he was sitting there, praying no-one would come, when he felt a hand on his shoulders.
‘Are you all right? Can I help?’
Liam looked up and through the swirling fog of nausea, saw Francesca. She was wearing a black coat, she had no make-up on, and she looked very pale, very drawn; even in his misery he could see she was upset.
‘Yes. Yes thank you,’ he said shortly, embarrassed that she should see him like this, embarrassed still more that she should be so clearly concerned. ‘I’m fine. Sorry.’
‘I didn’t realise it was you,’ she said, embarrassed herself now, unsure of his reaction as much as her own. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to see my father.’
‘Oh really?’ She half smiled. ‘Well, he can be very upsetting. I should know.’
‘Yes. Well.’ He couldn’t think what else to say. He slumped back in his chair, still feeling sick.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she said. ‘You look terrible. Look, let me get you a glass of water. Or a cup of tea, would that be better?’
‘No, really, Francesca, I’m fine. Just – well, I’m fine.’
He sat staring at her, wishing she would go away; and then there was a great gale of Obsession perfume and Marcia Grainger swept towards them, smiling slightly grimly, her severe suit and rigid hairstyle oddly at variance with the rich, strong perfume.
‘Mrs Channing! Were we expecting you?’
‘I don’t know, Marcia,’ said Francesca, a touch of a smile on her mouth, ‘were you?’
‘Well, Mr Channing certainly didn’t tell me,’ said Marcia severely.
‘Didn’t tell you what, Marcia?’
‘That you were coming.’
‘No, he couldn’t have done that, because he didn’t know,’ said Francesca briskly. ‘But I was – passing, and I felt – well, I wondered – if he was terribly busy or if I could see him.’
‘I will go and enquire,’ said Marcia. ‘Perhaps you’d like to come up to my office in a moment.’ The Obsession moved up the staircase.
‘I must go now,’ said Liam, grateful for the excuse. ‘I hope you see him. If that’s what you want.’
She smiled. ‘It is. Believe it or not. Thank you. I hope you feel better.’
He was standing at the bus stop in Lower Regent Street, in a sudden downpour of rain, still feeling ghastly, wondering what on earth he was going to say to Naomi, the bank, everyone, when a large beige Mercedes driven by Francesca pulled up beside it, and she signalled for him to get in. Reluctantly grateful, afraid of looking churlish in front of the rest of the queue, he did so.
‘I couldn’t drive past you,’ she said, ‘you don’t look at all well. Where are you going?’
‘Islington.’
‘Ah. Well, I can take you some of the way. I’m going to St John’s Wood.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ He felt intensely uncomfortable, unwilling to appear friendly, be polite to her, unable not to be. ‘Did you – did you get to see my father?’
‘No,’ she said, and her voice was very bleak and dead. ‘No, he couldn’t stop.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was on the off-chance,’ she said determinedly. ‘I don’t usually do that. But – you see – well, Kitty – that’s the new baby, you know – ’
‘Yes, I know of course.’ He felt a stab of guilt run through him that she should have felt he might not know. She had tried very hard to be friendly and he had rejected her at every turn. For absolutely no logical reason whatsoever. And now she was being extremely kind to him. And was clearly very upset.
‘Is something wrong with her?’ he said finally.
‘Quite wrong. She – they think – she has – might have – oh shit, I’ve got in the bus lane and now that cop’s coming over. What do I do?’
‘Cry,’ said Liam without hesitation.
Francesca burst into tears. The policeman, who looked like a rather young fifteen, gave her a sharp warning, directed her into the middle lane, waved her on. Liam handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose, wiped her eyes and drove up Regent Street rather erratically.
‘That was very good,’ he said, looking at her in amusement. ‘Can you always cry to order?’
‘No,’ said Francesca, ‘I can’t. Oh God, I’m going to start again. Fata
l with me, letting it begin. Liam, if I pull over, could you drive? I’m going to kill us both, at this rate.’
‘Yes, of course. Look, just pull over there, by the Beeb, and we can swop.’
‘Thank you,’ said Francesca. He got out; she eased herself over into the passenger seat and caught her skirt on the brake. It pulled up, revealing the whole of one thigh and, as she struggled to free it, the crotch of her pants. Liam tried not to look but couldn’t help it; she saw his eyes as she tugged it down and laughed rather shakily.
‘Indecent exposure,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Liam, re-starting the car.
She looked at him and half smiled back, then blew her nose hard, and relaxed into the seat. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘about all this. Really sorry.’
‘Want to tell me about it?’ Sitting in her car, sheltered from the rain, it seemed the least he could do.
‘I might cry again.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘It’s Kitty. She’s not very well. She – she might have – probably does have, a heart problem.’
‘What sort of a heart problem?’
‘We don’t quite know yet. I just took her to see a consultant this morning, for the very first time. He heard a murmur and she has to have something called an echo cardiogram done. Next week actually. On Tuesday. Oh God, I’m sorry, why should you care which day it’s got to be, why should you be interested?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Of course I’m interested. But you say you don’t know how bad it is yet?’
‘No. Nor even if it’s bad at all. But it’s just been such a terrifying, awful day. And she’s not a healthy baby, you see, she’s tiny and she cries a lot and it’s so frightening – ’
‘Yes, of course it is.’
‘And the thing is I just wanted to tell Bard, to be with him. And he – well, he was busy, and he really isn’t very good at sympathy. Certainly wasn’t just then. And that makes it worse.’
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ he said. ‘I know.’
She turned to look at him.
He was silent for a moment, then said, the memories rawly revived by the interview with his father, ‘When my mother died, you know. I was quite small. He – well, he wasn’t very good then, either.’
‘Oh God,’ said Francesca. ‘Oh Liam, I – ’
He went on talking, surprised that he should be doing so to her, unable to stop. ‘First he was so totally engrossed in his own misery he had nothing to spare for me, and then he worked himself out of it and I never saw him. And then – well, you know what happened next.’
‘Yes. Yes of course I do.’
‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It really has nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.’
‘Of course it does. I’m married to your father. It has a lot to do with me.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t quite see it that way. But anyway, I do know about – well, how difficult he can be.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you do.’ She was obviously embarrassed now, felt she had gone too far, been disloyal about Bard to the one person she should not have been. She was silent, staring out at the park. They had stopped at some traffic lights, and he was able to study her; she really was very pretty, he thought, more than pretty, although not quite beautiful, with her neatly sculpted nose and perfectly pointed chin, and the die-straight dark brown hair. She felt him looking at her, turned to him and smiled.
‘I’m sure you don’t care,’ she said, ‘but you’ve made me feel better.’
‘Of course I care,’ he said, guilty again at this reminder of his bad behaviour, his hostility. The lights had changed; he moved forward. There was a silence; then: ‘Look,’ he said, carefully, ‘look, I really think you should try very hard not to worry about Kitty. I know it’s easy to for me to talk, but if it was really bad, they’d have had her in for further tests straight away. Not waited until next week. What you have to do is take one hour at a time. Not even a day. Keep telling yourself it’ll be all right.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, you’re right, I know. But it’s hard. Anyway, I do feel better. Thank you. Well enough to drive home. Now where shall I drop you? We’re not in a very good place for getting to Islington, I’ve brought you too far. Do you want to try and get a cab? We could go up to Swiss Cottage.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ll get the Tube.’
‘But – ’
‘Honestly. It’s fine.’
‘All right then. I think this time I’ll change places in a more seemly manner.’
She got out and stood looking at him, then held out her hand. She looked just slightly awkward.
‘I haven’t asked you what you were seeing Bard about because I thought you’d prefer it if I didn’t. But whatever it was I hope it went well.’
‘It didn’t.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry.’ She got back into the car and smiled up at him; a quick, conspiratorial smile. ‘He’s not really so bad, you know,’ she said, and was gone.
Liam stood looking after her, trying to decide which of a series of emotions was uppermost: anger at his situation, an increased loathing of his father, or a sense of acute surprise that someone he had always made himself regard as tough and hostile and dislikeable, could be so gentle, so friendly and even so extremely desirable.
‘I’ll sue,’ said Bard, his face dark with rage. ‘I’ll sue the lot of them.’
‘Bard, don’t be ridiculous, who are you going to sue and what good would that do?’
‘It would do me a lot of good. And them a lot of harm. How dare they miss something like this, how dare they?’
‘So who are you going to sue?’ said Francesca. It was so absurd it was funny, but it was distracting her just slightly from her misery. ‘The hospital? The obstetrician? Dr Hemmings? Nanny?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She said she was quite sure Kitty was all right as well. And she’s meant to be an expert, isn’t she? So where are you going to stop? It’s ridiculous.’
Bard looked at her and scowled. ‘Well, who is this chap Lauder, anyway? Are we sure he’s the best man for the job? How did you find him, maybe we should get a second opionion even now – ’
‘He was recommended by Jimmy Browne. I really think he knows what he’s doing.’
‘Oh,’ said Bard. He was silent for a moment. Jimmy Browne was a friend of theirs; he was also one of the foremost surgeons in the country, a pioneer of certain micro-surgery techniques and a major voice on the British Medical Council. ‘I still don’t see why we can’t get a second opinion.’
‘Bard, we’ll get one. When they do the echo cardiogram. And if you’re not satisfied then, we can find someone else. But I really don’t think we should rock the boat now. It will just enrage Mr Lauder and cause a delay.’
‘I cannot imagine why you didn’t talk to me about this in the first place,’ he said. ‘I’d obviously have wanted to come with you, heard what the chap said for myself.’
‘Oh, Bard, really! In the first place, you’d have probably told me not to make a fuss about nothing, to talk to Nanny about her, and in the second you probably wouldn’t have come with me, you’d have told me you had meetings, that you didn’t know when you’d be back, or where you’d be, that you didn’t have time. Or more likely Marcia would have told me all those things.’
He looked at her, and the expression on his face was shocked: shocked and just slightly ashamed. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, but she had seen the shock and the shame and it was comforting, almost reassuring.
She was silent.
‘Well, I shall certainly come when you go next week,’ he said finally. ‘What day is it? Tuesday. Yes. And if there is any doubt, any doubt at all, about the diagnosis, then I think we should take her to the States. Their medicine is far in advance of ours and – ’
‘Bard, I have never heard such nonsense,’ said Francesca, laughing in spite of her anguish. ‘Of cours
e it isn’t, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. And the last thing that Kitty needs just now is a transatlantic flight. Whatever would Nanny say?’
‘Oh God!’ shouted Kirsten. ‘God. Shit. Toby. Oh, my God, oh Toby, now now now – ’
Her body arched, spasmed; released from it, from the long, wild, glorious sweating struggle, she soared, she flew, free, wild, triumphant, into her orgasm. On and on she travelled, riding it, riding the great undulating peaks of pleasure; for a moment, several moments, she thought, feared, it was over, and she lay, relaxing onto Toby, waiting, longing for its return and then it came again, sharper, stronger, purer, and then finally, finally she tumbled off it, and knew it was the end, and she lay, panting, still moaning gently, but smiling now, the head that had been raised to shout, to roar, relaxed onto the pillow, the arms that had clenched and clung so frantically to Toby’s body softening round him, the legs that had twined and tensed and thrashed about them both relaxed and easy, dangling over the edge of the bed they had so nearly fallen off.
Toby eased himself carefully back into its centre, rolled her tenderly off him, lay looking at her, playing with her hair.
‘Kirsten,’ he said simply, ‘you are one hell of a lay.’
‘What a revolting expression,’ said Kirsten.
‘Why?’
‘It’s sexist and insulting. And old-fashioned. That’s what men used to do to girls, lay them down and do them. And the girls just lay there.’
‘Yeah well, nobody’s going to get very far trying to do that to you. I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wanted to let you know how great it was. Jesus, look at the time, I’m going to be so late. Wish I worked for my daddy and could keep any old hours that suited me.’
The Dilemma Page 15