The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She went back to her front-row seat; her son put his arm round her, but she looked at him almost happily, nowhere near tears. There was a long, almost stunned silence; then the priest stood up and announced the last hymn, and people got quickly, gratefully, to their feet.

  God only knew why she’d done it, Rachel thought, what kind of crude satisfaction it had given her, to deliver, with consummate skill, a hard slap in the face for all the old guard, the Channings, the erstwhile colleagues – without saying a word against them. Callously destroyed the goodwill and warmth and happy recollection that had been so tangibly present at the end of Bard’s speech: and also cut through the hypocrisy, brought some honesty into the situation, she thought with a sense of near-shock, told them they had not been good friends to Duggie at the end, had stayed away from his home, had not spent time with him, brought their children to see him, had added to any unhappiness he might have been feeling. And told them also that she knew they didn’t like her, and she didn’t give a shit.

  And as the coffin slid slowly away, through the ghastly blue curtains, as Duggie left them finally, Rachel felt, through shock and remorse, and genuine grief, something else. A sense of admiration for Teresa Booth.

  So quick, so simple, it was, it had been, the moment: the one that Kirsten always thought afterwards had changed her life, when she had stopped saying quite so categorically she didn’t believe in love, had admitted there might be something in it after all, when a drift of an entirely new emotion, gentle, sweet, warm, came across her, into her. And at such a filthy, hideous moment, on such a foul occasion, outside that gross chapel place, why not a church, why, why not? when the awful Booth woman had done her worst, when everyone was feeling wretched and awkward and far worse than they had before, when there was the reception to get through, Francesca being tearful and gracious, and that ghastly mother of hers in that ridiculous hat, flitting about outside the chapel, chatting to everyone and shaking and patting the Booth woman’s hand, as if she hadn’t just delivered what amounted to a bollocking to the entire congregation or whatever it was called, and kissing her father, and even going over to Barnaby, Barnaby, for God’s sake, and kissing him, and taking his arm and walking him away down the path. God, she was a nightmare; a shallow, embarrassing two-faced nightmare, imagine being her daughter – just for a moment Kirsten felt a stab of sympathy for Francesca. And she was vulgar, there was no other word for it, for all her frightful drawly voice, her double-barrelled name. As vulgar as Teresa Booth, in her own way. Not an ounce of genuine feeling in her, she felt quite sure of that.

  She tried to distract herself from Rachel; looked at Granny Jess, who was standing in the porch, blowing her long nose rather hard on a very large men’s handkerchief; she was clearly waiting for Bard to fetch her, but he was talking to Heather Clarke, bending over her wheelchair. Why did he have to make such a fuss of her and those two children of hers: she’d noticed Melinda gazing at Barnaby across the chapel, silly cow.

  She would go over and talk to Granny Jess, take care of her until a car could be found. Gray was somewhere: gone to get his, perhaps. She’d been surprised he was coming, but he’d said, when he rang her to tell her, that Teresa had specifically invited him, had phoned him. ‘I was going to have lunch with Duggie that day, and she knew, said he’d been fussing about it just after he collasped and before he lost consciousness, said she must be sure to ring me, it was one of the last things he said. Dear old chap,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Kirsten, and then, ‘Why were you going to have lunch with him?’

  ‘Oh, to discuss business, developments in the property scene, that sort of thing,’ he’d said, just slightly too vaguely, she’d thought.

  ‘Anyway, Mrs B. has asked me to come, so I thought it was the least I could do.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be nice to have you there,’ said Kirsten, and she’d thought it would be, but actually it felt odd; obviously they couldn’t sit together, and people would think it funny if they were together at the reception or whatever it was called. They’d all got to go back to the Booth house: or ‘residence’, as that silly housekeeper of theirs answered the phone. And she still felt awkward with him, still regretted what she had done, the way she had seduced him, almost entirely to hurt Toby, although she did like him, did find him attractive. He hadn’t been exactly interesting in bed, but it had been all right. Well, better than all right, good even. But it had been bad of her, especially knowing he was unhappy, in turmoil himself. He had told her briefly about his girlfriend, about why they had broken up; it was a sorry little tale. She was surprised at Gray, actually; she would have thought he was quite the new man, doting-father type. Well, you never could tell. Anyway, she shouldn’t have gone to bed with him. God, she was a tart. A self-centred, stupid tart. Still behaving as if she were fifteen; she had to grow up. Only she didn’t want to grow up either; there didn’t seem a lot of benefit in it. Shit, what was the matter with her? Suddenly, sharply, she thought of her mother, who had never really grown up either, whose alcoholism was a desperate lurch back into irresponsibility, a place where she was safe, taken care of, where reality was kept at bay. Was she going to go the same way: only was sex, not alcohol, going to be her refuge?

  Panic gripped her, standing there alone, panic and at the same time a perverse longing for her mother, and grief too for Duggie, who had been so much a part of her childhood; tears filled her eyes again, hot, fierce tears, and as she turned to wipe them away, she realised she didn’t have a hanky, she’d given it to Tory at the service. And it was while she was rummaging in her pockets miserably, trying to find one, her nose starting to run, that it happened, that the moment came, while she was actually wiping her nose surreptitiously on her sleeve, praying no-one would notice, and a voice, a very nice voice, with just a touch of amusement in it, said, ‘Here, do you want to borrow mine?’ and she turned and there was Oliver Clarke, holding out his, his eyes genuinely sympathetic.

  Her first instinct was to say no thanks, and to hurry off; she really had never liked him, had always thought he was a mealy-mouthed creep, and she was sick of hearing from Granny Jess and her father how wonderful he and his sister were. But that seemed too rude, and it was extraordinarily thoughtful of him to have noticed her dilemma, even if he was a creep, so she smiled, rather reluctantly, took the handkerchief, and then noticed that her hand was shaking violently.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, and there was real concern in his voice. ‘You look very pale.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just – well, you know. Bit shaky.’

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘So unfair. Such a nice old guy. He was always so kind to me. To us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, sniffing, blowing her nose again, ‘me too. A second dad to me, really. No, you’re right, it isn’t fair.’

  ‘Life isn’t though, is it?’ he said. ‘Or death, for that matter.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, not at all, I’m afraid,’ and then she found herself looking at him, looking at him properly, giving him her attention, rather than a quick graze of a glance, for the very first time. He was watching his mother, and the expression on his face was very sweet, concerned, anxious that she was being taken care of; it was obviously totally habitual to him, that sweetness, that concern, it touched her in spite of herself. And then he turned back and smiled at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I was just checking on Mum.’

  It was his mouth she noticed first and most forcefully; it was wide, almost too wide, and his teeth were very even and well spaced. Kirsten did like nice teeth: one of the things she had first noticed about Toby were his teeth, but Toby’s were too perfect, a tribute to the orthodontist’s art; Oliver’s looked as if they had grown obligingly that way. His jaw was wide too, wide and generous looking, and his nose was extremely straight which she liked, she couldn’t stand turned up noses on men (and turned-under ones still less), and then she reached his eyes. She’d always thought of Oliver as fair, and his hair
was indeed fair – not blond, but very light golden-brown – but his eyes were dark, not the intense almost-black of her father’s, but a soft, dark brown, with black lashes that might have looked girlish but somehow didn’t. The other thing he had, which she really liked, was freckles: not too many, but a heavy smattering on his nose and forehead, quite large splodgy ones. They suited him. It was a strange thing to think about freckles, she thought confusedly, blowing her nose hard again to disguise the fact she was examining him so closely, but that was what Oliver’s did, they somehow completed his face, made it look less formal, more lived-in. Oh for Christ’s sake, Kirsten, she thought, what is the matter with you, drivelling on, this is Oliver, Oliver the dweeb; but she couldn’t help it, she just went on taking him, drinking him, in, and noticing that he was tall too, taller than her, by about two inches, and nicely dressed in a dark grey suit and blue shirt. And when he said, ‘You OK now?’ she heard his voice as if for the first time too: light, easy, completely accentless, a bit like Gray’s, she thought irrelevantly, only somehow with more warmth in it.

  ‘Oh – yes,’ she said. God, she must stop this, poor guy must think she was a complete moron. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  And now he was studying her, politely, briefly, but nonetheless studying; to break the silence, she said, slightly awkwardly, ‘It was very kind of you to come to my rescue.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, grinning again, ‘I just noticed you, standing there, and I didn’t have anything else to do at the time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And it is quite bad, not having a hanky and your nose running. It happened to me in an interview last week. I just didn’t know what do do.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Sniffed. Didn’t get the job,’ he added.

  ‘Why are you going for jobs?’ she said.

  ‘Oh – to pass the time between dawn and dusk,’ he said lightly, but she could see he was irritated.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that. You seem quite settled at Channings.’

  ‘Not really. I’m only working for Peter Barbour for a bit,’ he said, ‘just to tide me over. Till I can find something else. That’s official,’ he added, clearly anxious she shouldn’t think he was two-timing her father.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes. I really don’t want to work for your father long-term. However kind he is.’

  It was clearly important he got both those points over; it interested her.

  ‘Well, he’s not easy to work for,’ she said. ‘I should know.’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a silence, then he said, ‘Bit of a strong speech, that, wasn’t it? Mrs Booth’s, I mean.’

  ‘Yeah. But – well, if she meant to make us feel bad, she certainly succeeded with me. I felt terrible. I felt guilty already anyway, I never went to see him and he was always asking me, and she’s made me feel much worse.’

  ‘Well,’ he said almost cheerfully, ‘that’s what funerals are about, isn’t it, guilt? I must get back to Mum.’

  She was so struck by what he had said she wanted to pursue it, was going to follow him over to Heather’s wheelchair, to say hallo to her, when Gray suddenly appeared at her side.

  ‘Hallo, Kirsten.’

  ‘Oh, hi Gray. Gray, this is Oliver Clarke, a – a friend of the family. Oliver, Gray Townsend.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Oliver, and then, ‘Excuse me, I’ll maybe see you at the house. Keep the hanky,’ he said as she held it out to him, ‘I’ve got some more.’

  ‘Nice young man,’ said Gray.

  ‘Yes,’ she said absently, looking after him, noticing the way he moved, walked, rather quickly but heavily, noticing that he had very long legs, noticing –

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, thank you. I was going to go and get my gran, could we take her – ’

  And then Oliver turned, and across the expanse of the car park looked at her, above the heads of most of the people there, and smiled: not as he had before, politely, carefully, but with warmth and generosity, and an extraordinary feeling came over Kirsten, a sense that she had just made a discovery, learned something deeply important, only she had no idea what it was or might be, and she smiled back, and then Gray said, ‘Come on, let’s get it over with,’ and without even thinking what she was doing, how it might be interpreted, she took his hand and kissed him briefly, because he too was so kind, and allowed him to lead her to his car.

  ‘Graydon dear.’ It was Teresa, smiling at him, across the large hallway of her lush, plush Tudoresque house. ‘Graydon, could you help me with some of these canapés? Passing them round. I’ve slightly undercalculated on the staff, I can see I’m going to have problems. And they’ve all come back, the vultures. Bottoms smacked or not, they want some of Duggie’s best champagne.’

  ‘Er – yes,’ said Graydon. He smiled at her suddenly; he had actually rather admired her speech. He had thought it very clever and probably well deserved. He knew what these clans could be like, and he was sure Teresa had not fared well at the hands of the Channings. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, and anyone who could administer the reprimand that she had, and in such a situation, needed no sympathy. And she was hardly the fragile type. But then he looked at her rather more carefully; noticed the shadows under the brilliant blue eyes, the slightly grim set of her smile, the plump, heavily ringed hand shaking as she lit a cigarette, and felt ashamed of himself. She had loved Duggie in her own way, no doubt, and she was hurting much more than she was letting on.

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Come into the kitchen, everything’s set out there.’

  He followed her in; it was a vast, over-equipped place, the woodwork done in the current mode for distressed colour, in bleached-out pink, the floor elaborately tiled in some kind of mosaic. Heavily ruched blinds hung at the windows, totally out of sympathy with the large green Aga, clearly seldom used; by the Aga was a basket with two snarling poodles in it. Well, she would have poodles; it was inevitable.

  ‘Horrible little things,’ she said briefly. ‘They’re not mine, they’re my cousin’s, I like real dogs, I’ve just been looking at some Old English Sheepdog puppies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gray.

  ‘Duggie was against the idea. Said it would wreck the lawn. Over his dead body, he said.’ And then her eyes filled alarmingly with tears and she leant briefly against the wall.

  ‘Sorry, Graydon. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he said, kicking the door shut quickly, putting his arm round her, noticing the same over-heady perfume, the same intense warmth that had struck him at the Ritz. ‘You have a cry. You’ve been very brave.’

  ‘It’s been easy so far,’ she said. ‘Lots to do, plenty of drama. The tough time starts tonight. When everyone’s gone.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, and was amazed and almost annoyed to hear himself saying it, ‘if you ever want a shoulder to cry one, mine’s here. You have my number.’

  ‘Thank you, Graydon. That’s very sweet. I have a feeling I’m going to need a few friends. And it’s such a very nice shoulder,’ she added, patting his chest gently, ‘in such a very nice suit. Now, take these two, will you, and I’ll go and find that damn Philippino of mine and wind her up a bit.’

  It was quite nice, being able to move around the room, with a licence to talk to everyone. He had a quick word with Sam Illingworth, who had just arrived, and with Peter Barbour who looked terrible, white and exhausted, and who introduced him to Marcia Grainger, ‘without whom we would all be lost, wouldn’t we, Marcia? Marcia, I don’t think you’ve met Graydon Townsend, from the News on Sunday.’

  So this was Marcia Grainger, thought Gray, studying her with interest: Bard Channing’s bodyguard, as she was known on the street, tall, stiff backed, shelf bosomed, dressed in a severe brown suit, her salt and pepper hair apparently glued to her head, and dark red lipstick on a full, very firm mouth.

  She looked at him with a degree of polite distaste. ‘I have very little to do with the press,�
�� she said. ‘I find it better that way.’

  Gray, assuming (correctly) that this was meant to be a rebuke for his calling, told her she was quite right, asked her to excuse him, and moved away.

  He was just trying to locate Francesca Channing, who had spoken to him briefly outside the church, clearly surprised to see him there, when he found himself near Kirsten. She was standing with her brother – don’t like the look of him, Gray thought, over-charming and over-indulged – and a tall gaunt woman in black. Kirsten introduced her to him as Jess Channing – ‘My grandmother, practically brought me up.’

  ‘Well, I don’t seem to have done a very good job,’ said Jess Channing. Her voice was quite low, Gray noticed, and her London accent strong, but it was a very attractive voice. ‘Now Barnaby, you could make yourself useful, I’d have thought, passed some of those plates round. Poor Mr Townsend’s got his hands very full there.’