The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Oh Gran – ’

  ‘Barnaby, do what I tell you. How do you know the Booths, then, Mr Townsend?’

  ‘Oh – I’ve known Duggie from way back. I’m a financial journalist.’

  ‘Gray, what on earth were you doing, just now, locked in the kitchen with Terri Booth?’ said Kirsten.

  ‘She was – upset.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Her voice was sarcastic, heavy; for a moment he disliked her.

  ‘Kirsten, don’t be so harsh,’ said Jess Channing, ‘it doesn’t suit you. I’m sure Mrs Booth is very upset. And I have to say I thought that speech of hers was well deserved. We have all ostracised her. It was wrong of us. And Douglas was very happy with her, he told me so. Now you must excuse me, I have to speak to my son. Isambard,’ she called across the room, ‘Isambard, I’d like a word, please.’ She moved away from them.

  Gray had never heard Bard’s full name before; it sounded very incongruous. He looked down at Kirsten and grinned. ‘Some lady.’

  ‘Yeah, I told you she was great.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Mm. Think so. Bit – well, you know, shaken.’

  ‘Of course. You on speaking terms with your dad yet?’

  ‘Not really. I tried to talk to him about Duggie, but – ’ Her eyes filled suddenly with tears; she fumbled for her handkerchief. He could see she was genuinely and slightly surprisingly upset.

  ‘You really liked him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes I did. And I can’t bear to think he’s gone and I never – never – ’ Her voice wobbled.

  ‘Oh Kirsten. You are in a bad way. How would you like to have dinner with me tonight? No more than that, just dinner, cheer you up.’ And me, he thought wondering at the same time if it actually would.

  She looked at him and smiled suddenly, her oddly sweet smile. ‘Oh – no, I don’t think I should, Gray. Thanks for asking me. But I won’t be good company, and – ’

  ‘I’m not looking for good company. I just thought it might help.’

  She hesitated, clearly tempted. Then she said, ‘Well – yes. That’d be really nice. But – ’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, hoping he meant it, ‘I got the message last time. I understand. Just friends. Don’t worry, Kirsten, I’ll deliver you home to your door and I won’t even kiss you.’

  She laughed. ‘I’d hate that. Yeah, OK. Where d’you want to go? Or – tell you what, why don’t I cook for you?’

  ‘Can you cook?’ he said carefully.

  ‘No. But I could get some steak, and – ’

  ‘I’ll cook for you,’ he said. ‘Because I can, and there’s nothing I like doing more. What do you like? Italian, French … ?’

  ‘English,’ she said, surprising him.

  ‘OK. Steak kidney and oyster pie. How’d that be?’

  ‘Great. Only I don’t want you getting any ideas about the oysters,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘I swear I won’t,’ he said, and went off to the kitchen to recharge his tray.

  On his way back, he bumped into Terri; she had clearly had more than one glass of champagne and was looking a lot more cheerful.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ she said, kissing his cheek briefly, ‘thank you. And before I forget, Gray, give me a call tomorrow, would you. I think we most definitely have some unfinished business to discuss.’

  ‘We do?’ he said, slightly nervous.

  ‘We do. Little matter of a story about one Bard Channing …’

  ‘Good God,’ said Gray. He had not exactly forgotten the puzzlement of Duggie’s invitation to lunch, Terri’s veiled hints about a story, but he had consciously put it out of his mind, had tried not to think about any of it. He came back to it now with a sense of almost physical pleasure, as to a long-delayed drink.

  ‘You’re on,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you in the morning.’

  ‘Oliver, please! Please try!’

  ‘What?’ said Oliver irritably. He was watching Kirsten Channing chatting and laughing to that smooth bastard of a journalist, and wondering why it irritated him. Probably because she was so bloody sure of herself, well, she would be, looking like that, with all her father’s money behind her, that over-privileged upbringing, everything coming her way. Silly girl she was, slinging the family mud all over the newspapers; it merely confirmed what he’d always thought about her, that she was a shallow, spoilt bitch who didn’t know when she was well off. It was just that –

  ‘Oliver please, you’re not listening to me.’

  ‘Sorry. What’s the matter, Mel?’

  ‘I want you to take me over to Barnaby. Think of some excuse – ’

  ‘Melinda, you’re ridicuous. You don’t want to waste time even talking to that bloke. He’s bad news.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘You were talking to his sister. Looking pretty keen about it, as well.’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t,’ said Oliver wearily. ‘I was just being polite.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. You know perfectly well how I feel about Kirsten. I can’t stand her.’

  ‘It didn’t look like that to me. Not just now.’

  ‘This is a stupid conversation,’ said Oliver. ‘Can we drop it?’

  ‘When you’ve got me talking to Barnaby, we can.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake. Look, he’s got two trays of canapés, why don’t you go and offer to help him with one of them.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Melinda, flushing violently. ‘I really couldn’t.’

  ‘Well, go and ask him to take a couple over to Mum. She’s talking to his gran, shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  ‘Oliver, that’s brilliant. Yes, OK. I will. Wish me luck!’

  Poor silly little thing, thought Oliver; it was hard to believe that she was twenty-one, she seemed about sixteen most of the time. He hoped to God Barnaby wouldn’t do or say anything at all that gave her the slightest encouragement. Because if he did, he’d –

  ‘Oliver! How very nice to see you. How are you, dear?’

  ‘Oh – hallo, Mrs Booth. Yes, I’m very well, thank you.’ He’d been dreading this moment, had known it had to come.

  ‘It’s very sweet of you to come. And to bring your mother.’

  ‘No, really, we wouldn’t – that is – well, I’m so sorry, Mrs Booth. About Mr Booth. He was so – so nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, that’s exactly what he was – nice. I shall miss him dreadfully. But – well, life has to go on. Oh dear – ’ She smiled at him. ‘Not a very appropriate remark, that. Sorry.’ She was drunk, he realised; she put out her hand and patted his cheek. He had to concentrate very hard on not brushing the hand away. ‘Now are you all right, Oliver, being looked after?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thank you. We’re all fine.’

  ‘Good. I hope that Barnaby doesn’t start moving in on your pretty little sister. Nasty piece of work, he is, if you ask me.’ God, she was sharp.

  ‘Well – she thinks he’s terribly good looking. Got a bit of a crush on him.’

  ‘Silly girl. I suppose he is. Good looking, that is. Not as stunning as his sister, though.’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know.’

  ‘She is one gorgeous girl,’ said Terri Booth, studying Kirsten, who was now talking to her grandmother and Heather Clarke. ‘I don’t actually like those sort of looks, I prefer the younger one, but she is a stunner.’

  ‘Yes, she’s very pretty,’ said Oliver politely.

  ‘I don’t actually mind her too much,’ said Terri, surprising him. ‘I think she’s honest. Everyone said it was so dreadful, talking to the papers like she did, but I wouldn’t blame her. She’s had a tough time, with that mother of hers. Not too surprising she took to drink, of course, being married to Bard Channing – ’

  ‘Mrs Booth, I have to – ’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Oliver.’ She smiled at him, patted his arm, removed a hair from his lapel. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.
I’m a bit – overwrought. Is your mother all right, being looked after? Perhaps after all she and I can become friends now.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Oliver.

  She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. ‘You work for Mr Barbour, don’t you? It must be very interesting. All the internal machinations, eh? Fascinating. You never know what you might unearth there, Oliver.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know – ’

  ‘Oh take no notice of me,’ she said. ‘I’m rambling. Bit too much excitement for an old lady. But let’s just say you should keep your eyes wide open, Oliver. Now then, I must go and say hallo to dear Francesca, I suppose. Before she makes her rather feeble excuses and leaves.’

  She was gross, thought Oliver; he felt very sorry for her, but God, she was embarrassing. And always talking in those riddles of hers. He decided that next time – if there was a next time – he was going to come right out and ask her exactly what it was she was always going on about.

  ‘Oliver! Hallo again.’ It was Kirsten. ‘I’m just leaving. Gray – Gray Townsend, you know – is taking Granny Jess home, and I’m going with him to show him the way.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Why the hell did she think he’d be interested in that? Silly bitch.

  ‘I just wanted to – well, to thank you again for the hanky. And for being so kind. I really appreciated it.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll – well, I’ll send it back to you. What’s your address?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘No, I want to. Really.’ She smiled at him; she looked genuinely friendly. And she smelt gorgeous, some sexy, raw scent she’d just put on: he hadn’t noticed it before. For the benefit of that berk, he supposed. Christ, she was beautiful. He’d never known any really beautiful girls, not known them well. Certainly not in the biblical sense – and then, briefly, piercingly, a vision came to Oliver of knowing Kirsten in the biblical sense, of looking at that body unclothed, of touching those breasts, those full, high breasts, of parting those endless thighs, of – get a grip, Clarke, for God’s sake. He felt himself blushing. He was worse than Melinda. Only unlike her, he had not the slightest desire, not really, to know Kirsten Channing biblically or unbiblically. It was just that she seemed – well, at least a bit nicer than he’d thought. Softer. More vulnerable.

  He gave her his address, said goodbye briefly, and went to help Melinda and Barnaby – Barnaby, for Christ’s sake, this whole thing was turning into a nightmare – ease Heather into the car.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Melinda. ‘It is really very kind of you, Barnaby.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said, smiling at her, his teeth very white in his brown face. ‘Nice to see you again. See you around.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Melinda, ‘yes, see you around, Barnaby.’ She waved to him rather overenthusiastically as the car pulled away. ‘Do you think he meant that, Mum, do you think he really did?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ said Heather Clarke. She leant back in her seat. She looked very tired. ‘Poor Mrs Booth. She was very upset really, you know. When she said goodbye to me, she looked terribly strained. I feel so sorry for her. It’s the shock, you know, when it’s sudden.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Mum, do you like Barnaby?’

  ‘Well, he seems very nice, dear. He was certainly most kind to me. Poor Kirsten is a much nicer girl than I’d thought, too. I was talking to her grandmother about her, earlier. She says she’s actually very sweet, just very mixed up, got a bit lost along the way. And Kirsten was charming to me. Told me how good looking she thought you were, Oliver, that she hadn’t really noticed it before, and said you’d been really kind to her, and she’d enjoyed talking to you.’

  ‘Don’t make me spew,’ said Oliver.

  ‘That’s a horrible expression, Oliver.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  An absurd, but nonetheless sweet warmth had settled somewhere around his consciousness, a totally ridiculous desire to go on talking about Kirsten.

  ‘What was she doing talking to you anyway? What did she have to say? Apart from how incredibly cool and fascinating I was?’

  ‘Oh, not very much. She came over to talk to her grandmother, really. And she promised to come and see me. I don’t suppose she will, but it’s nice she should even think of it.’

  ‘If Kirsten Channing goes to see you, Mum,’ said Melinda, waking briefly from her reverie about Barnaby, clearly casting her mind for something drastic enough, ‘I’ll enter a convent.’

  ‘Talking of convents,’ said Oliver, ‘Mr Channing is becoming trustee of some convent in Devon. I saw the papers about it the other day. Getting involved in building some new home for the disabled attached to it. Doesn’t that strike you as pretty surprising?’

  ‘Not at all. He really is one of the kindest men in the world,’ said Heather.

  ‘Mum,’ said Melinda, ‘I sometimes think you’re in love with Bard Channing. Or were, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Heather.

  Francesca was walking past Terri’s pink kitchen, on her way to the loo, when she heard one of the poodles yelping. She liked dogs; she went in, bent down to stroke it. ‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling. The poodle bit her: not hard, but enough to make her flinch, draw back.

  ‘That was horrid,’ she said to it severely. She had never liked poodles anyway; silly little over-dressed things.

  ‘Francesca, dear, are you all right?’ It was Terri, standing in the doorway, cigarette in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. She didn’t look exactly grief-stricken, more like a pet poodle herself, Francesca thought, and felt perversely irritated.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. One of your dogs bit me.’

  ‘Not mine, dear. But I’m sorry. We’d better get it washed. I’m sure the dog’s not rabid, but you never know.’

  ‘Well, I certainly hope not,’ said Francesca lightly. She moved over to the sink; Terri stood beside her, turned on the tap.

  ‘Give it a jolly good scrub, I’ll get you some Savlon or something. Here – ’ she rummaged in a drawer, produced a tube.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Francesca.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have drawn blood, anyway.’ The ginny voice was slightly ironic, amused even.

  ‘No, No, of course not. It was just a bit of a shock. Thank you. Er – Terri – ’ She really felt she must say it, however she might feel, however hostile to Teresa for her outburst in the chapel. ‘I just wanted to say, again, I’m so sorry about Duggie. You must be – ’

  ‘Must be what?’

  ‘Well,’ Francesca felt slightly nonplussed, ‘feeling so sad. Lonely. Lost. I – ’

  ‘Well, I daresay I will be, Francesca,’ said Terri, and the voice was harder now. ‘Right this minute, I just feel numb. Which is probably just as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francesa, ‘yes, of course. Well, if there’s anything I can do – ’

  There was a silence. Then: ‘No, I don’t think there will be,’ said Terri. She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘I find that quite impossible to imagine. Actually. That you could do anything for me.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Francesca. She had no idea how to cope with this; this strange, almost open hostility.

  ‘In fact the best thing you can do for me, Francesca, is exactly what you’ve done so far. All along. Ever since I married Duggie. Keep away. Leave me alone. Ignore me. I haven’t liked that, any more than I’ve liked what your husband has done to Duggie. But it’ll suit me just fine now.’

  ‘Teresa, what are you talking about, what has Bard done – ’

  ‘Very little,’ said Teresa, draining her champagne glass. ‘That’s the whole point. Or of course if you looked at it another way, rather a lot. Seeing to his own rather well-lined nest. Not giving a bugger about anyone else’s. I’ve got your husband’s measure, Francesca, and I don’t like it. In spite of those very touching words at the service today. Everyone sitting there, gazing up at him, the great Bard Channing, hanging o
n his every utterance. That’s the way he likes it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Teresa – ’

  ‘I think you’d better go,’ said Teresa. ‘Otherwise I’m really going to say too much. And then, I can tell you, neither of us would like it. I think the best thing you can hope for from me, Francesca, is that you never see or hear from me again. But I wouldn’t depend on that if I were you. It’s gloves-off time now, you see, now that I don’t have to worry about Duggie any more …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Teresa,’ said Francesca, surprised at the cool, the self-control in her voice, when what she was really feeling was the ever more familiar sense of unease, ‘but I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘No,’ said Teresa, looking at her very intently, and there was something like sympathy now in her eyes, sympathy and at the same time scorn. ‘I really don’t think you do.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was a terrible sound; she couldn’t think what it was at first. Heavy, muffled, halfway between a groan and a wail. It sounded like an animal in pain. Then she realised: it was Bard. Bard weeping.

  Francesca looked at the clock: only one. He had said he was going to sleep in his dressing room, had told her to go to bed early, that she looked exhausted, and feeling at once relieved and faintly ashamed of herself (for what had she to be exhausted about, she had done nothing that day except say foolish vapid things, smile foolish false smiles), she agreed. That had been ten-thirty. He had been in his study since coming in from the office at seven. He had said he didn’t want food. He had been curt, withdrawn from her in his grief; helpless to comfort him, at the same time hurt at the continuing rejection, she hadn’t known what to say. He had carried a bottle of whisky and a jug of coffee upstairs and shut the door.

  Barnaby had gone out with Kirsten, it was Sandie’s evening off, Nanny had put the children to bed early, and had retired into her own small sitting room next to the nursery. Francesca felt very alone. Alone with her thoughts. With the memory, too, of the episode with Teresa which, however much she tried to shrug it off, tell herself it had meant nothing, that Teresa had been in an irrational, wretched state of mind, had upset her very much. She hadn’t seem irrational or wretched: simply angry. And almost – no, not almost, actually – enjoying it. Well, Francesca told herself for what seemed like the hundredth time since then, grief took strange forms, did strange things. That was all it had been. Of course. There was no point thinking about it any further. What she had said, or what she had meant. No point at all.