The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Oh, I expect he’ll be so overjoyed to see me he won’t even care,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘I really wouldn’t bank on that one. Now you have a little sleep, Barnaby, and – ’

  ‘Will you sit here and tell me a story? A story about a dead horny bloke and his beautiful stepmother who couldn’t resist him.’

  ‘No Barnaby, I won’t.’

  It was all so bloody awkward, Gray thought: he didn’t even now know what to do next, how to handle it. Flowers? Surely not. Too corny, and she would really despise them and him. Little note? But what the fuck would it say? ‘Thanks for the memory’ or ‘that was fun’ or ‘let’s still be friends’? He felt he really should do something. Nothing at all seemed very brutal.

  He sighed heavily and tried to concentrate on his morning zap through the papers. It didn’t work and he couldn’t.

  No matter how you looked at it, what had passed between him and Kirsten had been extraordinarily intimate. Not to be set aside with a quick wave and no glance backward. Or was that how they were, her generation? Did they regard sex as exactly that, a delicious meal, a feast, that once enjoyed could be remembered fondly, but with complete detachment? Briony certainly wasn’t like that, but Briony was several years older that Kirsten. And light years apart from her in attitude. He tried to imagine Kirsten yearning for a baby and couldn’t. She’d view the whole thing with total horror and revulsion. Oh God, now he was just avoiding the issue. What should he, ought he to do? He just didn’t know, didn’t know enough to handle it at all. In which case, then, he thought, the best thing was to take his lead from her. If she wanted to talk to him again, see him again, she would tell him so. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t. There was nothing coy, nothing inhibited about Kirsten. Just as she had in bed, she could take the lead and he would follow.

  He felt better for a while after that. But still uneasy, still decidedly unsure of how to act. Still feeling wretchedly shocked at himself for his swift betrayal of Briony. And still unable to cast Kirsten off, to set the memory of her and the night with her aside; he felt disturbed, in some way rearranged by her. And he wanted, he knew he wanted, to see her again.

  He wrenched his mind determinedly away from Kirsten Channing, and fixed it on Duggie Booth. Duggie and their lunch. Which was hopefully going to answer a few questions.

  A few infinitely intriguing questions. Not least why Duggie felt it necessary to talk to him at all, and explain the behaviour of his wife. It showed a fairly desperate concern, did that, especially when the explanation was to a fairly high-profile member of the press. Duggie obviously knew something, or had some very major anxiety. Or both. And it wouldn’t be about anything trifling: he might not be the brain of the century, but he was a wily old bird, who’d held his own in a fairly cut-throat business for going on four decades. Gray, contemplating the two hours or so ahead of him, felt a thud of excitement, a surge of adrenalin, Kirsten Channing suddenly of little importance, the pain at the loss of Briony sweetly eased. It was the Reform, the Reform at one, wasn’t it, he thought, rifling through his diary; or had Duggie said twelve-thirty? He hadn’t written it down; he’d better ring and find out.

  He called Duggie’s number at home but there was no reply, not even on the answering machine which was unusual; he tried Channings, where his secretary said he hadn’t arrived yet, but she was expecting him any minute. ‘He has a big meeting pencilled in for eleven-thirty,’ she said, ‘and so I should think your lunch would be one or even one-fifteen. It’s in the diary for one. I’ll confirm that, Mr Townsend, the minute Mr Booth arrives, and ring you back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gray.

  But eleven and then eleven-thirty came and then it was noon, and still Douglas Booth’s secretary did not ring.

  It was another heavy morning at Channing House. Bard had come roaring into Pete’s office twice, had shouted at Oliver three times, once to tell him the wires from his computer were trailing on the floor in front of his desk and sooner or later someone would break their bloody neck on them, once to get out a copy of the contract with the Cardiff developers, and finally (roughly thirty seconds later, as Oliver was still calling it up on the computer) to ask him if he was taking his lunch break before doing what he had been asked. He disappeared finally for a meeting in the boardroom at eleven-forty-five; even Pete Barbour, normally the embodiment of discretion and formality, met Oliver’s eyes and shook his head gently, and then went rather quickly into his office and closed the door, as if to protect himself from further disloyalty.

  Oliver returned to what he had been doing, which was an updating of various staff contracts, and wondered if he dared take another walk round Paul Smith’s at lunchtime, when Barbour appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Come in a minute, Oliver, would you? Those spreadsheets you just gave me, I’d like to check something on them with you – ’

  Oliver went in; he was always amused by Barbour’s office, its determined resemblance to a library, with its heavy fake antique desk, the leather chairs, the bound volumes on the shelves – not classics, but Simon’s Tax Manuals. An analyst, Oliver thought, would have said Pete clearly fantasised about being an academic rather than an accountant.

  He went over to the desk, took the papers Barbour held out to him.

  ‘It’s this lot here,’ he said, ‘if you could just – Bard, you OK?’

  The door onto the corridor had opened and Bard Channing had come in. His face was ashen, and his almost-black eyes were dull, dead, expressionless. He walked over to Barbour’s desk, leaned heavily on it, head bowed, looking down at his own hands. Nice hands, Oliver noticed irrelevantly, not for the first time, long fingered and slender, not at all in keeping with Bard’s stocky frame.

  ‘Bard, what is it, what’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Duggie,’ said Bard finally, very quietly.

  ‘Duggie? What about him? Where was he this morning, he hasn’t had an accident, has he?’

  ‘You could say that. Yes, you could. He’s – he’s had a heart attack, Pete. Duggie’s dead.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Coffins always looked so small, Francesca thought. You could never believe the person you had known could possibly fit into them. What had happened to Duggie, that his six-foot-long, quite solid shape had been somehow shrunk into this politely neat, hexagonal box? She tried not to think of him in there, it was unbearable: silent, white, confined, himself yet not himself, lying eyes closed, hands composed, dressed in some awful white garment, no doubt, instead of his scratchy tweeds or his old-fashioned City suits, lying there beneath the great mass of white and yellow flowers, roses and lilies, shaped in an absurdly oversized cross, that was Teresa’s offering. She thought of him as he had been, as he still was to her, so kind and affectionate and good humoured, and felt saddened, ashamed, that the very last conversation they had had, she had promised to take the children to see him and had never done so. Had considered herself too busy, too distressed, her concerns too important, to give up a day, an afternoon, to give him the kind of easy, affectionate pleasure he had so longed for. Had made the excuse Teresa, Teresa whom she did not like, whom none of them liked, had told herself that Duggie had Teresa, had chosen Teresa, that he was therefore perfectly happy (when the evidence of her own eyes, common sense, told her quite otherwise), and that it was of no importance therefore if they neglected him, ignoring his patent sadness at his estrangement from them all. And that when finally she had found the time, had phoned to arrange it, it had been too late by only perhaps minutes.

  She looked over at Teresa; she was sitting on the other side of the memorial chapel, very pale, her blue eyes expressionless, fixed on the coffin, dressed in a black silk suit, a large feathered black hat on her silver-blonde hair; her son Richard was next to her, his face rather grimly set. He was suntanned, handsome in a rather vapid way. The estranged daughter had not come.

  Francesca looked then at Bard, whose own face was stern, raw with grief at this loss of his oldest friend, hi
s colleague, with whom he had shared not only much personal pain and joy, but professional concerns too, success and failure, risks taken, ground won, lost and then won again. He had known Duggie before his children had been born, before Marion had died, before Channings had been even dreamed of; it was not only Duggie he was saying goodbye to, but a great multi-emotioned mass of his life. He was singing now loudly, tunelessly, ‘Jesu Lover of My Soul’, determined not to give in, to weaken. Why, Francesca thought irreverently, why, if she was going to have so heavily religious a ceremony, did Teresa have to opt for this plastic chapel; why not a good, honest, and infinitely more beautiful church? He had to make a speech in a minute; she had been anxious earlier that he would not get through it, would break down, but of course he would cope superbly. Bard could get through anything; nothing broke him.

  He had been more distant from her still since Duggie’s death; she had expected him to turn to her in his grief, had hoped they would become closer again, that she could comfort him, but it was as if he had decided she could not share the grief, and the effort of trying to make her understand was simply not worthwhile. She had found him the first night in his study, his head buried in his arms, but when she had gone in, put her hand gently on his shoulder, he had shaken her off, quickly, roughly even, said, ‘Don’t, don’t, Francesca, I want to be alone,’ and every day since then had moved further away. She had wanted to talk to him about so many things, about Duggie, about their shared past: but it was all quite impossible. She might almost be a widow herself, she thought, staring at the coffin, for all the companionship, the closeness she experienced these days.

  Jess, who was sitting next to her, suddenly patted her hand and smiled at her gently, as if sensing her loneliness and distress. She had been deeply saddened herself by Duggie’s death – ‘another son he was to me, in a way, Francesca’ – had aged in the time since, looked somehow less upright, less sprightly, as if some of her strength had gone with Duggie, as if some of her life too had gone along with the memories.

  Teresa she had hardly spoken to, after the first awful, awkward conversation, when she had been calmly, almost briskly, in control; she had phoned, of course, to invite them to the service, to ask Bard to speak and then again to ask him what he thought he might say, and who else she should ask, but there had seemed nothing she could say to her that would not seem either trite or hypocritical. She sent her some flowers, and a letter saying she would be there if Teresa needed company or someone to talk to (knowing that she was the last person who would be chosen for either purpose), and that had been all.

  Thank God, thank God, Pattie hadn’t come; she had been invited, but had refused, obviously unable to face them all. She would have admired her for coming, but it would have added to the tensions of the occasion horribly. There were dozens of people there she didn’t know, business colleagues, golfing companions of Duggie’s obviously. And rather surprisingly Graydon Townsend was there: she couldn’t imagine who had invited him. He really was very good looking, she hadn’t really taken it in the other night, and wearing an extraordinarily nice suit. He had the sort of looks she liked best, a slightly hawkish, intelligent face: very attractive. Exactly her type – until she’d met Bard. Patrick had been that type. Gray kept looking at Kirsten, she noticed. Well, most men kept looking at Kirsten. She was hard not to look at.

  She supposed Liam would have come under normal circumstances. He had sent some flowers; she had seen them. She had told him about Duggie herself; he had been patently upset.

  ‘He was so good to me,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘Like another dad. Well, like a dad. When the real one failed me.’ He looked at her and smiled rather feebly. ‘For years and years he was always there. I used to go there in the holidays, he used to come and see me at school. God, it’s a shame. If only I’d – ’

  His voice had cracked; he stopped talking. Francesca had been touched by his very real grief.

  The hymn ended; Bard stood up, paused, took a great breath that was more a sigh, and walked forward to stand by the coffin.

  Well, at least, Rachel thought, she had been invited to sit with the family: she was next to Victoria, in between Kirsten and Barnaby. Francesca had forgiven her thus far. But she was still distant, avoiding her; when Rachel had got back from the convent, she had gone straight to see Francesca, planning to make a little speech, to try to explain. But Francesca had been tearful, distracted over Duggie’s death, and worried too about Barnaby, who was ill; had said, ‘Look, Mummy, not now. Whatever it is you want to say, I’d rather it waited. I really can’t cope with anything else at the moment.’

  And she had respected that, with some relief, seeing that whenever she did tell Francesca it had to be the right time, she had to be feeling strong and resilient, if there was to be any hope of her accepting the situation. But she had not been allowed near Francesca in the following week, her offers of caring for Jack, for helping with arrangements – ‘What arrangements, Mummy?’ had been the cool, slightly amused response. ‘I’m not arranging a funeral, I haven’t got anything to do’ – rejected.

  And so today was the first time she had seen her, since the first, difficult meeting; and she was worried, frightened at the gulf between them. She had phoned Bard, said how sorry she was, and he had been oddly warm, grateful for her call. ‘Duggie was very fond of you, Rachel,’ he said. ‘He said you were one hell of a woman.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Rachel, accepting this as the compliment it was clearly meant to be, ‘well, I was very fond of him. I just wish – ’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said, ‘we all wish. We all wish it very much. But it’s too late. Bless you for calling, Rachel. You’ll be there on Friday, at the funeral, won’t you? I’d hate it if you weren’t.’

  She had been touched by that, very touched; had written a note to Teresa, wishing she liked her more, and was pleased when she received a formal printed card of thanks, inviting her to the funeral.

  Rachel had another worry too, apart from her estrangement from her daughter; a bigger, more tangible worry. Bard had still not finalised arrangements for the money, had not signed the forms of association for the charity; time was winging by, there was so much to do, and how could she chase, chivvy him under these circumstances? She supposed she must simply wait, patiently, the thing she found always most difficult.

  Bard was beginning to speak now; she glanced briefly round the chapel, at the many faces she did not know, as well as the familiar ones. The Clarke family were only two rows behind. Oliver had positioned his mother’s wheelchair very carefully, so that she could see. He had real charm, that boy, an easy, surprisingly confident charm; Heather Clarke had done a good job under the most appallingly difficult circumstances. He was good looking too, and bright: the sort of son Bard should have had, rather than that layabout Barnaby. Goodness, he was delicious, though, Barnaby: if she were twenty, maybe only ten years younger, she’d be seriously tempted by him. Those marvellous deep blue eyes, the bronzed skin, the corn-coloured hair, blonder than his sister. Far too long, of course, although tied back neatly for the funeral today, and he was wearing a suit which looked rather too big for him; he was terribly thin, no doubt the legacy of India. He was clearly an absolute nightmare, irresponsible, lazy, as much trouble in his own way as Kirsten – but infinitely more agreeable. Which probably made Kirsten worse, she thought. She didn’t like Kirsten, but she was clearly the family scapegoat.

  Barnaby saw her looking at him and smiled at her, a wide, glorious smile, then swiftly sobered his face again into an expression more suited to the occasion, and fixed his eyes on his father.

  She followed his example, turned her attention back to Bard; his rough, strongly pitched voice, its South London tang still about it, reached clearly and easily to every corner of the building. He spoke affectionately, but not mawkishly, of Duggie; told funny stories, described incidents, smiled as he described his passion for golf as his life-force, took them all back through the years, the long year
s of their association; paid tribute to his loyalty, his courage, his constancy as a friend, his talent for fun, his passion for good food, his capacity for whisky, ‘and above all, the sheer goodness of the man. There was nothing shabby about Duggie, nothing cheap, nothing frail. He was a rock; we shall have to manage without him somehow, but it will not be easy.’

  He stood there in silence for more than a minute, his brilliant eyes fixed on the coffin, and then he rejoined Francesca, sat down without looking at her, at any of them, head bowed. Oh God, thought Rachel, fishing in her bag for a handkerchief, hearing from every part of the chapel the humdrum sounds of sadness, of muted grief, throats cleared, noses blown: Victoria was crying, openly, tears streaming down her face; Kirsten’s eyes were closed, her mouth tightly compressed; Francesca was biting her lip, her eyes welling over; even the terrible Marcia Grainger’s eyes were brilliant with tears. And then rather slowly Teresa Booth got up and took Bard’s place, and surveyed them all for a long time, her blue eyes almost amused, before starting to speak herself.

  It was something of a shock, that speech. To all of them. And extremely clever. Without saying anything very much at all, really, she had managed to make them all, all the family at any rate, feel terrible. It was out of order, totally out of order: but they did deserve it, and she knew it, and so did they.

  And she had said absolutely nothing untrue.

  Only that she knew she was still not seen as quite a part of Duggie’s life, yet, not by most of them, his old friends, his colleagues at Channings, the Channing family – ‘And how could I expect to be?’ (This with a quick smile.) ‘We’d only been married two years, he had been with Suzanne almost thirty, she was still his wife to most of you. I can understand that. But that was not the case, I know, thank God, to him. I was his wife, and I believe I made him happy. I tried to. I tried very hard. Not in the same way as Suzanne had, of course, but in my own way. It wasn’t easy. I had hoped to ease his loneliness and in a way of course I did. We had fun, we did things together he hadn’t done before, things he certainly enjoyed. But I am very aware that my arrival in his life was not all for the good. There were those of you who had known him for so long, who found the changes hard to accept. The base of his life inevitably changed. I did not try to come between him and his golf – good God,’ she said, smiling almost cheerfully, ‘no man and certainly no woman could have done that. What did happen, and only a fool could have not seen it, was that he had to give up quite a lot for me. Old friends, old ways, old haunts. Well, it happens, with every new marriage. It’s just harder when the new one follows a very old one. And it troubled me at times; I thought perhaps I had taken from him more than I had given, and I thought that others might have felt that too. But I stand here now to put the record straight as I see it: to tell you I loved Duggie, and he loved me, and that he did die a happy man. His last words to me were that he loved me. I am proud of that. Very proud. You should be glad for him and glad for me. Thank you.’