‘Fuck you,’ he said suddenly, ‘fuck you. Fuck you for thinking I’d cheat on you. I find it hard to bear.’ And he turned away from her, ran down the stairs and she heard the front door bang violently; and then she was alone, alone in the big silent house, wondering what on earth she had done. And knowing at the same time that Bard was most certainly guilty of something, and that he was also very afraid. The unease settled on her again: no longer a drift, something hard, something tangible. It was becoming quite difficult now to push it away.
‘Rachel?’ It was Reverend Mother’s voice. ‘Rachel, there is no real need for alarm, but Mary has hurt herself. I thought you should know.’
‘Hurt herself? How? How bad is it?’
‘She fell down the cellar steps. She was trying to carry too many things down, to the stores, you know how she will do that.’
‘And – ’
‘Well, she’s in hospital.’
‘In hospital? That must mean it’s bad, what’s she done, should I come down – ’
‘She’s broken her ankle. Which isn’t at all serious. But she had a very nasty bump on her head. She’s – she has a hairline fracture, and she’s concussed, and they’re keeping her in for a couple of days, for observation. Now she really isn’t too bad, they have stressed that repeatedly, there is no real danger as long as she can be kept quiet. And they’ve sedated her mildly, because – well, you know how she is.’
‘I do. Oh God. Is she very – upset?’
Mary hated hospitals, always had, ever since she had had to be admitted as a small child with a very deep cut on her foot and been held down by one unsympathetic nurse while another stitched it, rather brutally, without a local anaesthetic.
‘A – a little, yes. Yes, I’m afraid she is. I stayed with her for a while, but of course I’ve had to get back.’
‘Should I come down?’ said Rachel. ‘I could, very easily. Would that help?’
‘I think it would help more than anything in the world. She’s in Exeter General. Easy from the station.’
‘I’ll leave at once.’
She had just finished packing an overnight bag, when the phone rang again. It was Francesca; she sounded strained and almost tearful.
‘Mummy? Can I come round?’
‘Well, darling, I – I was just going out.’
‘Can’t it wait? Or shall I come when you get back? I need to talk.’
‘The thing is, I’m going away for a couple of days.’
‘Away? Where to, what for?’
Because it seemed simpler, Rachel lied. ‘I’m going to stay with my old friend Joan Duncan. You know? In Leicestershire. She’s a bit down, and – ’
‘Oh. Oh I see,’ said Francesca.
‘You sound a bit down yourself. It’s not Kitty, is it, darling?’
‘What? Oh, no, no she’s a bit better, I think. But I – Mummy, couldn’t you possibly wait just for an hour? I could come straight away.’
Rachel thought fast. It was a considerable dilemma. Mary needed her; there was no doubt about it. She was alone in the world, apart from the nuns who were all too busy to sit at her bedside for more than a few minutes; Rachel was the one person who could help her, the one person available. But Francesca needed her too, and would not understand why she could not have her. There had been a previous similar incident, when Mary had had a very bad attack of gastroenteritis and again ended up in hospital, seriously dehydrated, and Francesca had been in the middle of her O-levels. Of the two claims, Rachel had felt then that Francesca’s was the greater (especially since any kind of satisfactory explanation for her departure was clearly impossible) and had stayed with her, while nevertheless deeply concerned for Mary, wanting to be with her, to soothe and comfort her. There had been little doubt that the recovery then had been slower because of her distress at being in hospital; this time, Rachel felt she could not fail her.
‘Well, darling, I am in a bit of a rush – ’
‘Oh Mummy, please.’ Francesca’s voice was strained, weighted with tears. ‘Surely you can spare me an hour. I can’t be much longer than that anyway, Nanny’s away and Sandie’s looking after the children. What’s Joan got to be down about?’
‘Oh – she’s just not been very well. Yes – yes, all right. But I don’t want to let her down. Tell you what. I have to get to Paddington, silly for you to come down here. Why don’t we meet somewhere up there, what about the Pâtisserie Valerie in the High Street?’
‘Yes, all right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, so you get there when you can.’
It took Rachel almost half an hour to get to Marylebone High Street; Francesca was sitting at the table, pretending to read The Times. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and dark glasses; she had no make-up on and she was very pale.
‘Hallo darling. You look rotten.’
‘I feel rotten,’ said Francesca. She took off the glasses; her eyes looked sore. She had clearly been crying.
‘What is it? Tell me. Espresso,’ she said to the waitress who was hovering. ‘What do you want, darling?’
‘The same,’ said Francesca, and then added, ‘It’s Bard. Of course.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s – oh, I don’t know. I just feel utterly – bewildered by him. Despairing.’
‘He hasn’t – he isn’t – ’
‘Mummy, don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you. And no, he’s not having an affair. At least I don’t think so.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I don’t think so. Or maybe I do. Oh, God, it’s just a mess. A horrible, horrendous mess.’ Her eyes filled with tears; she brushed them impatiently away, blew her nose. Rachel took her hand, stroked it tenderly.
‘You’re not exactly making any sense, darling. Come on. Tell your old mother.’
Francesca sniffed loudly, looked at her and then said, ‘I’ll try. The thing is we haven’t been getting on at all well lately. Lots of rows. About Kitty, I suppose … I mean, not about Kitty. But that’s what seems to have started it. We’re both worried. All that business about Kirsten in the newspapers didn’t help either. Bard was very upset – ’
‘I should think you were quite upset too,’ said Rachel briskly. ‘That girl needs a good spanking.’
‘Well, whatever she needs, she’s not going to get it. The point is we’ve been quarrelling. Bard and I. A lot. Nasty quarrels. Rows, really. One leading to another, endlessly.’
‘As they do.’
‘Yes.’ She took a sip of coffee, looked down at her wedding ring. ‘Married life, I guess.’
‘Indeed. So – ’
‘Anyway, he’s been away for a few days. I was so determined it would be better when he got back last night. And then – oh, Mummy, I don’t know – ’
‘Darling, you really are going to have to do better than this. I can’t help you otherwise.’
‘No. No, I’m sorry. Well, the thing was – ’
Slowly, falteringly, the story of the previous evening came out. A rather odd story, Rachel felt. Very odd. She dismissed totally any notion of a relationship betwen Bard and Teresa Booth; they quite clearly loathed one another. On the other hand, the arrangement of a simple financial transaction didn’t seem quite explanation enough for the situation Francesca had walked into.
‘And then he wasn’t just annoyed, I could understand that, not even just startled. He was furious. Furious and I think scared.’
‘Scared? What of?’
‘Mummy, I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be sitting here,’ said Francesca irritably.
‘Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve tried Stylings, tried the office – ’
‘And it’s Saturday – ’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘What about the Booths?’
‘Oh no!’ said Francesca. ‘I’m not ringing them.’
‘No I suppose not. But Duggie might know – ’
‘Mummy, I can’t.’
‘I could,’ said Rachel.
‘I don’t want you to. What would you say? “Is my son-in-law there? Could you send him home at once? Or has he run off with your wife?” No, it’s really silly. And I couldn’t bear it.’
‘I’m sorry, darling. It was only an idea. Well, if there’s one thing I’m quite sure of, it’s that Bard hasn’t run off anywhere with Teresa Booth. Uness he’s going to push her over a cliff – ’
‘Oh don’t.’
‘Well, what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Francesca fretfully. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. To ask you what you thought.’
Rachel looked at her watch; she couldn’t help it. Francesca noticed.
‘You’d better go,’ she said irritably. ‘I don’t want to keep you from your friend.’
‘Darling, I am sorry. It’s just that I promised her, she’s expecting me on that train and – ’
‘Yes of course. I understand.’ Her tone made it clear she didn’t. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll just go home and wait for the phone to ring.’
‘Francesca – ’
‘You know what makes me most upset, about our life in general? It’s the way Bard seems more and more determined to turn me into some kind of a bimbo. It’s always been that way, but it’s got worse lately. I don’t understand him, I really don’t. It’s real don’t bother your pretty little head about anything stuff. That’s not what he married, Mummy, not what he fell in love with – ’
‘I know,’ said Rachel soothingly, ‘but men are all the same, you know. That is what they want. Correction, what they think they want. Just someone there, to run their lives and be waiting in a lace négligé when they get home.’
‘Did you have to do that?’ Francesca’s voice was interested.
‘Things would have been a lot worse if I had. But it’s what your father wanted me to do. To be. And you have to add to the equation Bard’s compulsion to keep things to himself. It’s not just a closed book you’re married to, Francesca, it’s one with a lock and key on it, like one of those diaries …’
‘Yes. I know.’ She sighed, was silent. Then she said suddenly, ‘Do you know what a letter of wishes is?’
‘Yes. Well, more or less. It’s an instruction that’s not quite an instruction to a lawyer or a fund manager. Your father was rather keen on them.’
‘Mummy, you sound about as lucid as Bard,’ said Francesca, amused. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, it is a bit complex. What the letter says quite literally is, “It is my wish that you do and so and so” – usually with funds – without actually spelling out that it’s an order. But of course the recipient of the letter almost certainly will do whatever it is because he’s being paid to. It’s like all these things, a hook that can be wriggled off.’
‘And you’d write one of these to who?’
‘Oh – someone who was running a trust for you, a fund, usually offshore.’
‘But it wouldn’t indicate, would it,’ said Francesca slowly, ‘that something dodgy was going on?’
‘Well, not dodgy, no of course not. A bit creative perhaps. Honestly darling, I’m not an expert. Anyway, why do you ask?’
‘Oh – nothing. I – just came across one. When I was in Bard’s office the other night, a fax came through. I just wondered what it meant, that’s all.’
‘Well, not a lot,’ said Rachel.
‘You seem to understand a lot more about business than I do,’ said Francesca irritably. ‘Maybe I am a bird-brain. Maybe that’s what the problem is.’
‘Darling, of course you’re not. That company is hugely complex, you couldn’t possibly be expected to understand the running of half of it. Unless Bard gave you an intensive course of instruction.’
‘Which he certainly isn’t going to. Especially now he’s disappeared.’
‘I’m absolutely sure,’ said Rachel soothingly, ‘that he’ll be back soon. I can’t believe he’s just run off and left you, or that he’s had some accident, if that’s what you’re worried about. Bard loves you and he cares about you, very much, I do know that …’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he told me so. Only the other day.’
‘When? When did you see him?’
‘Oh – I can’t remember now.’
‘Mummy, you can always remember everything. You’re being very mysterious suddenly. First Teresa Booth, now you, what is this?
‘Oh – ’
‘Mummy, I know when you’re lying. You’ll have to tell me. Come on, when did you see Bard?’
‘I – I went to see him a couple of weeks ago.’
‘What, to the office? Why?’
‘Oh – I was going to tell you. Of course. But you know I have this charity I’m involved with, in the West Country, the convent, where my friend’s mentally handicapped daughter is – ’
‘Yes?’
‘They’re in trouble. They need help. And I – well, I asked Bard if he could do that. Help. Come onto the board or something.’
‘Mummy, that is outrageous.’ Francesca was flushed, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. ‘You can’t do things like that, not without telling me – ’
‘I thought it was better that way. I thought he’d probably say no, anyway, so what was the point – ’ She was floundering now. ‘Obviously, if he’d said yes, I would have – ’
‘And did he?’
‘Did he what?’
‘Say no?’
‘He – said he’d think about it.’
‘I think it’s too bad of you. Honestly. He gets furious if he’s bothered in the office, by anything outside the business, I wouldn’t dream of it even, and then he takes it out on me. I know a lot about charity, Mummy, it’s my rather pathetic life’s work, I could have helped you with it, I just don’t understand – ’
‘I’m sorry. Very sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just to reassure you really. That he does love you. Very much.’
‘I’m afraid you haven’t reassured me at all. You’ve upset me more.’
Rachel was silent. She put out her hand; Francesca shook it off. ‘Don’t.’
‘Well,’ she said, trying to sound bright, ‘there doesn’t seem a lot more to be said now. Or a lot more that I can do. Would you like me to – ’
‘No, it’s all right. You’d better get off to your train.’ Her voice was very cold.
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch again, relieved at the excuse, the respite, ‘yes, I think I had. It’s at eleven fifteen and I’m cutting it fine already.’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ said Francesca. ‘My car’s out there. I’ll pay the bill; here’s the keys, go and get in.’
Her voice was cold and unhappy; she followed Rachel out, started the car, drove it very hard down the street, turned right.
‘Darling, left to Paddington.’
‘Mummy, I don’t know why you think it’s Paddington. It’s Euston for Leicester. Isn’t it?’
‘Well – ’
Rachel was silent. This was absurd; it was also irremediable. She thought wildly of saying Joan Duncan had moved, or that she was meeting her somewhere along the line, but it would sound clearly nonsensical. She would have to get out at Euston, and get a cab back to Paddington. She would probably miss the train, but she could get the next. There was no alternative.
‘Bye, darling,’ she said, kissing Francesca briefly on her cheek as she got out of the car. Francesca did not even look at her. ‘Try not to worry. I’m sure Bard will be back, very soon, with a huge armful of flowers. I’ll ring you later and – ’
‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,’ said Francesca. ‘Goodbye. I hope you enjoy your stay.’
She pulled off with a screech of tyres. Rachel watched her safely out of the concourse and then hailed a taxi. ‘Paddington,’ she said, ‘I’ll double the fare if you can get there in seven minutes.’
‘Blimey,’ said the cabbie. He was young and cheerful;
he clearly saw it as a challenge. He cut out into the Marylebone Road and put his foot down, weaving in and out of the outside lane, crashed one red light, pulled up swearing at the next. Rachel sat back, slightly alarmed, buckling up her seatbelt; she was too distracted to notice the driver of the Mercedes pulled up alongside looking in. It was a very large Mercedes, the number plate was BC 2345, and the driver was Francesca.
‘Oliver, dear, this is Teresa Booth.’
Oh God, thought Oliver wearily, this is all I need. Bloody woman. ‘Yes, Mrs Booth, good morning.’
‘I just got your mother’s letter. I was a little hurt.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Booth. It honestly was nothing to do with me.’
‘No, dear, I don’t suppose it was. But I’d gone to a little trouble to get the house organised for her, and – well, that doesn’t matter too much. I’m much more disappointed she doesn’t want to see me. Have you any idea why not?’
‘No, Mrs Booth, I haven’t. Really. But I am sorry. Now if you would – ’
‘Bard Channing didn’t have anything to do with it, I suppose? Her changing her mind?’
‘Oh – no. No I don’t think so. Of course she likes to go along with his plans, but – ’
‘Of course. Thank you, Oliver. Well, I hope the trip did her good.’
‘Yes, it certainly did. She’s feeling much better.’
Which is more than I am, you interfering old bat. ‘And now, Mrs Booth, if you’ll excuse me, I’m awfully busy.’
‘Yes. Of course, Oliver. Thank you, dear. I’ll see you soon.’
It sounded more like a threat than a polite platitude.
‘God,’ said Toby, ‘for a girl who’s always in trouble, you spend an awful lot of time doing good works.’
‘Oh piss off,’ said Kirsten. ‘I’m not always in trouble and I don’t call going to lunch with my grandmother doing good works.’
‘I wouldn’t have lunch with mine.’
‘Yes, well, you’re a selfish little shit, aren’t you?’ said Kirsten, smiling up at him, twisting her fingers through his dark hair. They were in bed; they had just had some extremely good sex, and Toby wanted her to go out to lunch in the country with some of his friends. Kirsten said no, she was going to have lunch with Jess, and anyway, having lunch in the country on a summer Saturday meant sitting in a traffic jam. A boiling hot traffic jam.
The Dilemma Page 25