‘Still asleep, Mrs Channing,’ said Nanny, making it very clear that anything Francesca thought she might do would not be welcome. ‘She’s very tired, and sleeping peacefully. I think she should be left until she wakes.’
‘Yes, all right, Nanny. I wasn’t going to take her clubbing. Jack, I’m just going to change and then we can have some stories together. All right?’
‘Great, Mum.’
‘Mummy,’ said Nanny automatically. Francesca winked at Jack; his determination not to be an ideal Crossman baby appeared to be growing daily.
‘When will Dad be back?’
‘Oh – not till late after all. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. Did he get my baseball bat, do you think?’
‘I don’t know, darling. I hope so.’
‘Cool.’
‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, Jack,’ said Nanny. ‘What about the proper word?’
‘Cool is the proper word for a baseball bat. That’s what they are. Cool.’
Nanny sighed and picked up the bath towel.
Francesca went into her bedroom, and sat down on the bed; she felt very tired and her head ached, horribly disappointed at the way the evening had turned out. She had had such good intentions, had felt so strong and confident about everything, and now it seemed they were still heading for the same dangerous abyss – at a terrifying speed. What had gone wrong with them, why had it happened, where had it begun? Not long ago: only three months, maybe less. On the day of the christening, for instance, she knew, she could remember, being perfectly happy. It wasn’t just Kitty either; they just seemed to be losing each other. It was all very frightening. And it was, at least in part, her fault. It must be.
She sat there thinking; felt suddenly remorseful at being so hostile to Bard that evening. He would have much preferred to have stayed at home with her, or she was fairly sure he would. He had looked absolutely exhausted; he had clearly had a difficult time, had come back to see her, and she had failed him, rejected him, turned away. ‘Bitch,’ she said aloud. ‘Stupid, stubborn bitch.’
She got up to put her rings away and saw his pearl shirt studs on his bedside table: he had obviously meant to take them with him, for the dinner that night. He loved those studs, hated not having them. She looked at her watch. She would have plenty of time to drive to the office with them before he left; it would be an olive branch and she could say she was sorry, ask him to wake her after all when he came in.
She picked them up, put them loose in her jacket pocket and went up to the nursery bathroom door again.
‘Jack darling, I’m really sorry, but Daddy’s just phoned, he’s left something important behind. I’m going to take them down to the office myself, I’ll be back in an hour. OK? All right, Nanny?’
‘That will be perfectly all right, Mrs Channing,’ Nanny. ‘But I can’t keep Jack up for very long, he’ll get overtired and that isn’t – ’
‘Nanny, I won’t be very long. I promise.’ She bent and kissed Jack. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
It was, despite her optimism, almost seven when she reached Channing House. The traffic was bad, every traffic light was set staunchly against her, and then she couldn’t find anywhere to park. She finally dumped the car right outside the door, blocking in a rather flashy little Rover (clearly a visitor, she thought) and ran in; Hugh, the night porter was already at his post in the small office just inside the door.
‘Evening, Mrs Channing.’
‘Good evening, Hugh. Is my husband still here?’
‘He is, yes, Mrs Channing. Shall I – ’
‘Oh good. No, don’t tell him I’m coming, I want it to be a surprise. Oh and Hugh, I’ve blocked someone in, here’s my key in case they come down before me. OK?’
‘Right oh, Mrs Channing. But – ’
‘Thanks, Hugh.’
She pressed the lift button, waited impatiently for twenty seconds or so, and then decided to walk up.
The staircase was an open one, leading to the first two floors; it was marble, with a very nice cast-iron rail, noisy and slippery; countless time and efficiency experts had urged Bard to have it taken out, walled in, carpeted, but he always refused. It was one of his more provocative pronouncements, much beloved by the press, that anyone who was fool enough either to slip on it, or fail to appreciate it, had no business in his building.
Bard’s office was on the first floor, off a beautifully curving landing; Marcia’s was next to it, with an interconnecting door. As Francesca reached the landing she thought she heard footsteps on the flight of stairs above her; she stood still for a moment, wondering if it might be Bard, but they stopped at once. Obviously an echo.
Bard’s door was uncompromisingly closed; better perhaps to go via Marcia. She would probably have left, but at least she could see if Bard had someone with him.
She knocked gently on Marcia’s door and went in: she had indeed left, but her presence filled the room, totally daunting still. Not a pencil, not a sheet of paper, not even a leaf of the one rather severe plant on her windowsill stood out of place; the room was a study in straight lines, in order, in silence. Her word processor, her fax machine, her telephone with its answering machine all stood, stolidly mute, on her large black desk, and her chair was set so absolutely dead centre of her desk, she might have measured out its position with ruler and protractor.
Francesca looked slightly nervously at the door that led to Bard’s office; it was closed, but she could hear no sound through it. She reached out and switched on the intercom: again silence. He was clearly not there. She pushed open the big door gingerly, still slightly fearful that he might be sitting working, but he was not, and the chair was pushed back from his great desk, as chaotic as Marcia’s was tidy. She stood there for a moment, quite still, faintly awed as always by the thought that from this single room was controlled ultimately the complex mass that was Channings: this was the nucleus of it, a huge resource of intellectual and financial power. She had found it from the very beginning as moving as she found it exciting: that the man who said he loved her, who wanted her, who wished to place much of his life with her, who occupied her bed and possessed her senses, could be at the same time this other alien and incomprehensible creature; it excused so much of what he did, how he behaved, the searing rages, the brooding darkness. But sometimes as she watched him at home, as he did something mundane and unremarkable, as he read to Jack or held the baby, or as he reached out for her, held her, as they talked or laughed or argued or fought, she would think of that other creature and find him almost impossible to believe in.
His briefcase was still by the chair, his computer was switched on; a great mass of figures, totally incomprehensible, filled the screen. Amidst the wild sea of papers on his desk, she saw his diary lying open: she went over to it, thinking she could find out when exactly the dinner started, and as she did so the fax machine, the dedicated one on the low table by his desk, with his own personal number on it (she used to send messages to that number, in the early days, loving, raw, raunchy messages) hummed loudly: a single sheet came out.
She jumped, then, unable to resist the temptation, looked at it: it was a completely unheaded piece of paper, no address, no fax number on it, just the message.
‘Re revised Letter of Wishes,’ it read, ‘please re-confirm new percentage allocation to both US dollar and Gib accounts. Also new allotment to WFF.’
There was an illegible squiggle on the bottom and that was all.
What fun they must all have here playing tycoons, thought Francesca, half amused, half wistful; it was like living some TV series. And what a ridiculously obscure message, all initials and codes. Just like Bard; playing games and making things more complicated, more difficult, than they really were.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ It was Bard’s voice, and he was standing in the doorway wearing his dinner jacket, and he looked immensely angry. And more than angry, something else. He seemed – what? Some
thing she had never seen before, something more frightening than the anger. He looked scared.
Against all the odds, all common sense, Francesca felt awkward, almost scared too; and then as swiftly angry with herself for feeling it.
‘Bard, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ she said, her voice cold, ironic. ‘I brought your studs in. Your pearl studs, you know? You’d left them behind and – ’
‘You came all this way, just to bring me my studs? I find that very hard to believe. Why the hell didn’t you ring first? And why didn’t Hugh tell me you were here?’
‘I wanted to surprise you. I thought you’d be pleased, I wanted to say – oh forget it. For God’s sake, Bard, I – ’
And then she realised he was not alone, that someone else had come into the room with him, someone quite clearly very much at home, in command, far more so than she was. It was Teresa Booth. Teresa Booth, overdressed as always, in brilliant blue silk, her silver-blonde hair in a tight, bright cloud round her face, smiling graciously, almost condescendingly at her.
Francesca stood quite still for a moment; she felt winded and dazed, as if she had been punched in the stomach and hit over the head at the same time. Then she took a deep breath and said, ‘Teresa! What a surprise! What are you doing here?’
‘Francesca dear! I could ask you the same thing.’
‘I’m sorry, Teresa, but I don’t think you could.’ She looked at Bard; he was still standing, silent, white faced, staring at her.
‘Well, I can see you both have a great deal on your minds. I’ll leave you. Have a good evening, Bard. And please don’t wake me up when you get in.’
She couldn’t remember driving home; afterwards she thought she was lucky not to have had an accident. She ran up the stairs to the nursery; the children were both asleep. She went to her room, lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, shaking, deathly cold, as in the runup to a fever.
What the hell was going on? Surely, surely Bard couldn’t be having an affair with Teresa Booth. That really was unthinkable. It strained every ounce of credulity she had. On the other hand, there was clearly something between them. Teresa had been so in command, so absolutely unfazed by the situation, enjoying it even, so plainly joined with Bard in something. But what? Business? Well, that was possible. But surely they would have told her. An errand for Duggie? In which case surely she would have said so; Bard would have said so. And he had looked so totally shocked by her appearance in the office, had been so angry with her; he had behaved like someone guilty, someone afraid. She turned her mind to his behaviour generally over the past few weeks: no different, really, from usual. He had been alternately distracted, harassed, bad tempered, and then easily relaxed and affectionate; had slept well some nights, others had been at his desk when she had gone to bed or (more rarely) working there when she woke early to find him missing: he had been away a lot, out a lot, but no more than usual. There was nothing, nothing at all, to indicate that the underlying rock-bottom base of their lives had changed in any way. She had been shocked by his attitude to Liam, shocked at the depths of the animosity between them it had revealed, but even that had been at least in character. And yet, yet; this evening, she had arrived in his life unexpectedly, and his reaction had been one of guilt and shock.
‘Fuck,’ said Francesca aloud, Francesca who never swore, who hated obscene language, ‘fuck you, Bard, fuck you.’
She lay there for a long time, just trying to establish how she felt, what she might do, then fell into a confused half sleep.
She woke up hours later, icy cold; went into the bathroom, ran herself a bath.
She was lying in it, still feeling cold and wretched, when she heard the front door open, Bard’s footsteps heavy on the stairs, in their room. He pushed open the bathroom door, looked down at her in the water. Francesca looked back at him, filled with distaste, and with a sense of invasion. She crossed her arms across her bare breasts, said, ‘Please go out of here.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said. He still looked white, shocked. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘All right. I’ll be through in a few minutes.’
When she came back into their room, he was sitting on the bed; he was in his dinner jacket, holding a large brandy. He didn’t say anything, just sat looking at her.
‘Bard, I’m very tired,’ said Francesca. ‘I’d really like to – ’
‘Francesca,’ he said, ‘what the hell are you playing at?’
‘Playing at!’ said Francesca. ‘What am I playing at! What about you, Bard, what are you doing? What were you doing with Terri Booth, and why – ’
There was a long silence. Then: ‘Jesus!’ said Bard, standing up, staring at her, his face dark and heavy with anger. ‘Dear sweet Jesus, Francesca, you cannot think that I and Terri Booth are – really could not believe it of you. That you should be that insane, that …’
‘Well, I’m sorry you should be so very surprised,’ said Francesca, ‘but what do you expect me to think?’
‘Francesca for God’s sake, she’s my partner’s wife. She was simply in the office, picking up some papers. Papers to take home to Duggie.’
‘In which case why did neither of you say so?’
‘Because you were giving a very good impression of Ophelia doing the mad scene. Or Lady Macbeth. Or any other deranged creature. It was embarrassing and it was irritating. I simply wasn’t prepared to go to any great efforts to reassure you.’
‘Well, I am so sorry,’ said Francesca, ‘so extremely sorry. I will endeavour not to be embarrassing or irritating in future, Bard. I seem to be like the rest of your family, including your own son, nothing but an embarrassment, a nuisance to you. And I have to say I don’t find your explanation very satisfactory. On the other hand I don’t think I can face hearing another, equally unlikely one.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake – ’ he said. ‘Francesca, please – ’
Francesca cut him short. ‘Look, I’m very tired. I’d really like to get to sleep. Perhaps you’d like to go into the dressing room. I don’t think we’re getting very far this way.’
‘Francesca – ’ There was a silence and he looked at her, thoughtfully for a long time, as if weighing up what he should say, what he might do. Then finally he almost visibly shook his head, sat down suddenly on the bed and took her hand. ‘I can hardly bear it,’ he said, ‘that you should think that I could go from you to – well.’ His voice tailed off; he sat looking at her, his dark eyes very heavy.
‘I love you, Francesca. Very much. I would never cheat on you. I couldn’t. I had hoped you would know that.’
‘Well, then tell me!’ she cried out. ‘Tell me what was going on. Please. I need to know. It was – I was scared. I felt shut out. I don’t understand why you can’t explain.’
‘I can only say,’ he said, ‘that you had no reason to feel that way. And there was nothing to explain. It was a business matter, to do with Duggie and me, and – yes, with her, in a way, and that is all there is to it.’
‘But Bard, what? What business matter, why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because it is nothing to do with you,’ he said.
‘Then I have no option but to continue to think you’re lying.’
‘Oh, don’t be so absurd.’
‘Bard, I am not being absurd.’
‘You are being absurd.’ His voice had risen now, raw, angry. ‘That is arrant nonsense,’ he said, ‘total arrant nonsense.’
‘Bard, tell me. What was she doing there, what were you doing with her?’
He looked at her in silence for a long time, his eyes first angry, then thoughtful. Finally he said, ‘I was discussing a business proposition with her. She needed some money put into her company, and I agreed that I would help her.’
‘Oh.’ The explanation was so simple, so plausible, she was completely taken aback. She had expected a labyrinth of explanation at best, a long involved tale of talks and meetings and discussions. Then she said, ‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said why did you agree to help her? And why you, why not Duggie? And why couldn’t you have told me in the first place, instead of that ridiculous piece of play-acting?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake. How much longer is this going on, do I have to tell you how much is involved, the form in which the loan takes, the rate of repayment, the interest rate?’
‘It goes on until I am satisfied, Bard.’
‘Well, you must remain unsatisfied. I am simply not prepared to be cross-questioned like this. It’s insulting, it’s horrible.’
‘And don’t you think it was insulting, horrible for me, finding you there this evening with her, your attitude to me, her attitude?’
‘It shouldn’t have been, no. Not if you trusted me. Which you obviously don’t.’
‘And how am I supposed to trust you,’ she cried out in agony at his incomprehension, ‘if you won’t tell me what’s going on? If you have all these half secrets, tell me semi-truths. Trust doesn’t come from nothing, Bard, from nowhere. It has to be fed and nurtured. Not neglected and abused.’
‘Oh stop being so bloody melodramatic. You sound like a Victorian housemaid.’
‘Bard, be careful, please – ’
‘It’s you who should be careful,’ he said, ‘of the damage you are doing. Thinking you can walk into my life, my professional life, and start behaving like this. I warn you, Francesca, you start questioning me as to the way I conduct my business at your peril.’
She sat staring at him in silence, absorbing his rage, his arrogant hostility, his deliberate distortion of the situation in an attempt to divert her; then she got up, went over to her dressing table, rummaging through a drawer for she knew not quite what, her back deliberately turned to him. ‘Your business is your own affair, of course,’ she said, ‘if you want to keep it that way. And your professional life. But your private life is not. That is mine too, Bard, mine and our children’s. Please remember that. And what I saw this evening seemed to me not entirely professional.’
The Dilemma Page 24