The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  She really couldn’t go and see Liam again, Francesca thought: she’d been every day for a week, except the weekend when she and the childen had gone to Stylings and Bard had promised to come if he possibly could and didn’t; it was ridiculous, goodness knows what the nurses must think. He was probably beginning to dread her visits: at this rate they’d run out of things to say. Only every day he said please, please Francesca, come again tomorrow, you’re my only visitor, and it’s an awfully long day, and every day she said she would if she could, only she wasn’t making any promises, and then every day she found she really wanted to go again, and of course she could, she had plenty of time, all the time in the world, Bard was working ridiculous hours, and when he did come home, he went to his study and then told her to go to bed without him, that he would be working late, would sleep in his dressing room.

  And since she was really rather lonely, and not actually terribly busy, there didn’t actually seem any reason not to go. She was at least doing something useful, which was more than could be said of much of the rest of her existence.

  And there certainly didn’t actually seem to be any danger of their running out of things to say; they chatted easily, endlessly, and every visit she found she had stayed longer. They had much in common, they discovered through those conversations: they found they were charmed and amused by the same things, the same gossipy stories in the papers (both suckers for anything about the Princess of Wales), John Major’s Diary in Private Eye, the News Quiz on the radio, the same films (Best this year so far? Oh, Somersby. Really? Me too) the same music (Not Mozart and Clapton and Ella Fitzgerald, not all three, I don’t believe it); that they were both reduced to tears by any cheap sentimentality (‘I once cried over a wedding on EastEnders, can you believe that?’ said Francesca, ashamedly, and ‘I can believe it, because I did too,’ said Liam, laughing at her shame); the same book – ‘Brideshead, I read it every year, and anything, anything at all by John Updike’ – ‘Which one, don’t tell me, Couples is my all time favourite.’ ‘Mine too, mine too, most people don’t even know that one.’) They liked the same food and there was much talk of it, of Indian carry-outs, and steak tartare and jacket potatoes and apple charlotte – ‘Not crumble, I mean charlotte’ – ‘Yes, yes, I know, I do too, – and raspberries rather than strawberries, pears rather than apples,’ and Liam teased her about her passion for figs – ‘I told a journalist about that the other day, I’m sure it was silly of me, D. H. Lawrence and all that.’ ‘Yes I’m sure it was too’ – all this over the mince and carrots that passed for stew and the dried-up fish and watery mash that was called fish pie and the tinned fruit cocktail that they swore was fruit salad which Liam dutifully swallowed for want of anything better. Except of course for the grapes and the peaches and the nectarines that Francesca brought him, and the oatcakes and the Dolcelatte, and the Mars ice cream she had taken in on the Friday: ‘Next week if you come, we’ll have one of these,’ he had said, indicating a metal blue and gold attaché case, filled with half bottles of Veuve Clicquot; ‘Present from dear old Duggie and Teresa, I feel so terrible, I never thanked him.’

  ‘We all feel terrible about Duggie,’ she said, very sadly, and it was true, she did, more terrible every day; and then, making a great effort because after all he needed support, cheering up so much: ‘Liam, we can’t drink champagne here, I’ll be expelled, expelled from your bedside, and then you’ll be sorry,’ and ‘Yes,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘Yes, I would, so very sorry. But the nurses are all extremely fond of me now,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘and dreading me going, so they won’t actually mind a bit.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure,’ she said, punching him gently, ‘and be careful, I don’t like conceited men.’

  She loved those conversations: they were so unlike any she had had for a long time. Bard never chatted these days, certainly never gossiped, and most certainly never listened to her on such matters as films she liked, food she adored, books that made her laugh aloud. Well, not any more, she told herself, struggling as always to be loyal: what husband of five years did, such comparisons were dangerous, deeply so. She felt quite sure Naomi Channing would hardly recognise her husband from these conversations either. Nevertheless they were wonderfully soothing, marvellously restorative; they soothed her hurts, restored her morale, eased her loneliness. And as he recovered, became more of a person, less of an invalid, she found herself increasingly fascinated by Liam, by his likeness to Bard as well as his unlikeness; it was impossible not to compare them, not to set one against the other.

  Physically they were strangely similar, and at the same time utterly different: Liam’s face was in some ways Bard’s only somehow made lighter; the same brilliant dark eyes, the just slightly too long nose, the hard jawline. But Liam’s eyes were wider spaced, the forehead higher, the mouth tauter. Only the hair was exactly the same; thick, dark, unruly hair, that defied every cut, every piece of hairdressing skill. Bard’s was streaked with grey, and Liam’s was longer, but it was the same hair.

  Their voices were the same in essence too, deep, strong voices, slightly throaty, but Liam’s was musical, an actor’s voice, shaped into perfection for the Bar, Bard’s faster, rougher, more emotional.

  But there the similarities ended; Liam was still where Bard was restless, patient where Bard was impatient, as swiftly interested as Bard was easily bored. Liam was courteous, easily charming; Bard was brusque, frank, dismissive of anyone or thing that did not interest him. But the biggest difference of all, she thought, was that Liam was so straightforward, so easy to read, Bard so complex and inscrutable.

  ‘Nice weekend?’ he said as she went in that morning to the hospital, found him in the day room, with a suspicious-looking bundle on his lap, under a blanket.

  ‘Mmm. Quite nice. What on earth have you got there, Liam, it looks like a bedpan.’

  ‘Ssh,’ he said, ‘did you bring the glasses?’

  ‘What glasses? Oh, the champagne glasses. Do you know, I did.’

  ‘Excellent. Let’s go over to the corner and tuck ourselves in. No-one will come anyway, they’re all watching the royals arriving at Ascot.’

  She followed him to the corner, smiling indulgently at him. He seemed to her at that moment exactly like Jack.

  He removed the blanket, produced two half bottles of the Veuve Clicquot. ‘Even cold. I chatted up the little Indian nurse and she let me put it in the fridge. Here – ’ he eased the cork out of the first one – ‘here’s to us. Thank you for a very happy time.’

  She held out the glasses, laughing. ‘Liam honestly! Hardly happy.’

  ‘Oh, but it has been. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a time so much. Only because of you. You’ve been wonderful, Francesca. I feel so ashamed of how I used to treat you, so sad to think of all that wasted time when we could have been friends.’

  She smiled at him, sipped at the champagne. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, while regretting it herself.

  ‘So you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course I forgive you.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he said. ‘Thank you for that, too. As well as all the rest.’

  ‘Liam, I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Of course you have. Giving up all your precious time – ’

  ‘Not very precious,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh really? Not with two little children and a very demanding husband and some equally demanding stepchildren and – ’

  ‘Don’t go on, Liam, it makes me feel depressed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my time isn’t precious. Because quite often I’m bored to tears. Because – oh, it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.’

  ‘Of course you should. You’ve put up with a lot of shit from me. Let me put up with a bit from you.’

  ‘No, Liam, it’s not fair. Not to you and not to – well, not to anyone.’

  He shrugged. ‘OK. This is nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s lovely. Le
t’s drink to dear, dear Duggie.’

  ‘To Duggie.’ They touched glasses, smiled; she met his eyes then looked away. The expression in them, intent, probing, made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Tell me about your weekend,’ he said.

  ‘Oh – it was all right. We went to Stylings.’

  ‘All of you?’

  ‘Mmm. Barnaby came too.’

  ‘How is the little sod?’

  ‘He’s a little sod. But he’s also a life enhancer. I can’t help liking him. Anyway, he’s fine. Well on the mend now.’

  ‘How does he get on with my father?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Bard adores him. Definitely his favourite. Well, apart from Jack. I – oh Liam, I’m sorry. I didn’t think, how stupid, I just – ’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, and his voice was harsh suddenly, harsh and heavy. ‘I’m quite used to it. Have been for a long time.’

  ‘Liam, I – I know he’d like to make amends, if you’d – ’

  ‘Francesca, he wouldn’t. He hates me. It’s all right. Not your fault. Let’s talk about something else.’

  But he was very quiet for the rest of the time she was there, and when she left, still anxious, his face was sombre, he hardly smiled, even when, to try and comfort him, she kissed him goodbye. All the way back to the house, she reproached herself, wondered how she could have been so insensitive. When he was so sensitive.

  ‘What are you looking so cheerful about?’ said Sister. ‘Nice visit from Mrs Channing?’

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, ‘very nice indeed. Sister, would you like to share a glass of champagne with me? I think I have something to celebrate.’

  ‘I killed him,’ said Terri Booth. Her voice was very heavy and flat, and she looked exhausted, white and drawn beneath her heavy make-up. She had also clearly lost weight in the ten days since the funeral; she was a very different woman from the defiant one who had stood up and castigated the congregation for being less than good friends to her and Duggie.

  ‘You did?’ said Gray, his voice carefully, deliberately light. ‘And exactly how did you do it, Terri? Not arsenic, I hope, because – ’

  ‘Don’t joke, Gray, I did. Of course not arsenic, of course not anything like that. I mean I was responsible for him dying. I caused the heart attack. I nagged and nagged and worried and worried him, and I made it happen. Don’t look at me like that, Gray, it’s true.’

  ‘I can’t help how I’m looking,’ he said gently, ‘and I know it can’t be true. You just don’t seem like a nag-hag to me; Duggie looked like the cat that had got the cream the last few times I saw him, I reckon you made him very happy. As you always said. I think you’re displaying classic widow’s remorse, you feel guilty just because he’s – dead, and you’re alive. I know that sounds crude, and I’m sorry, and it’s not meant to, but it’s true. My mother adored my father, she worshipped the ground he walked on, and he never had to so much as pick up the paper for himself, or fetch his own slippers from the fireside, but she said exactly the same when he died. She sat with tears pouring down her poor face, just like you are, and told me it was all her fault. So honestly, Terri – ’ he took her hand, stroked it gently – ‘I really think in a little while you’ll know what nonsense you’re talking, and you’ll feel better. It’s all part of the grieving process. As the counsellors say.’

  She smiled wearily at him, blew her nose. ‘You’re such a nice man, Graydon. But I’m afraid you’re wrong. I know all that, and I know I made him happy in some ways. But I did worry him to death. Literally. I was – well, I was doing something that was troubling him a lot.’

  ‘Yes? Tell me. Seeing one of the Chippendales?’

  ‘Graydon, please don’t joke. It isn’t funny.’ She didn’t look as if it were funny.

  ‘All right. Tell me. I promise I won’t joke.’

  ‘I was – well – ’ She hesitated, took a very large slug of the whisky she was drinking. They were sitting in the saloon bar of an extremely vulgar pub, all ruched blinds and elevator music, which she said was her local; Gray, lured some twenty miles and over an hour from his desk by the increasingly urgent sense of a story, had agreed to meet her there.

  He leant forward, smiled at her. ‘Go on. Confess. If it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘I was trying to find out about – about what happened. To – ’ she hesitated – ‘well, in the early days of the company.’

  ‘Ye-es? Doesn’t sound so very terrible. You’ll have to do a bit better – or worse – than that.’

  ‘Well – Graydon, I’m convinced that – well, something suspicious was going on.’

  ‘When?’ And what sort of suspicious?’

  ‘In the ’seventies. When – when Nigel Clarke died.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You know about that, I suppose. I mean what was supposed to have happened?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Gray. He felt extremely sick suddenly; he knew what it was. Excitement. Raw, physical excitement. He spoke carefully and calmly. ‘Nigel Clarke was killed, wasn’t he? In his car? I can’t see how Bard Channing could be held responsible for that.’

  ‘No, I know. And it was a foggy, icy night, and he wasn’t even speeding. And he had been drinking. But – well, I don’t know, Gray. Duggie would never talk about it, always glossed it over just a bit too much. That whole time.’

  ‘So what do you know?’ said Gray carefully. ‘About it all, I mean.’

  ‘Well, Duggie just told me Nigel Clarke and Bard had a meeting, late that night in the office. The company was doing really well, they were flying high, it was the peak of the first big property boom, new contracts and buildings going up all over the place; a real success story. They’d had a few whiskies, Bard said, and then Nigel left, and went on his own to a pub. Which was in itself a bit odd; he had a pregnant wife and a baby, and he was by all accounts a real homelover.’

  ‘Yes, but – well, I can easily imagine wanting to go to a pub, if I had a wife and two small children at home,’ said Gray lightly. ‘Doesn’t sound too serious to me, Terri.’

  ‘No, I know. But – well, that’s not quite the point. Duggie hated talking about it. Hated talking about those days at all, as a matter of fact. Just made it all sound too easy. Which it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. Nobody ever made the fortune those guys did without one hell of a struggle. So I tried talking to Bard.’

  ‘Yes, but why? I don’t see why you were so suspicious.’

  ‘It was the Clarkes,’ said Terri. ‘Bard Channing is so terribly good to them. Out of order good.’

  ‘Well, I expect he felt guilty. A bit like you do.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe. But do you know, for instance, he picks up the tab for the nursing home Heather Clarke is in. And she doesn’t know, she has no idea. None of them does, they all think it’s paid for by some insurance policy.’

  ‘How on earth did you find that out?’ said Gray slowly.

  ‘Oh – I’m a very good detective,’ said Terri, smiling complacently at him. She was looking better; telling the story was obviously cheering her up. ‘I snooped about at the office a bit.’

  ‘You did?’ said Gray, remembering with amusement Kirsten’s story of seeing her at Channing House late one night. ‘You’re quite a girl, aren’t you? Did Duggie know about this – snooping?’

  ‘Some of it, I’m afraid,’ she said, and her face was sad again; then she visibly pulled herself together. ‘Anyway, it was all done very skilfully, no doubt to cover their tracks, there’s some special fund at the office which paid into an offshore charitable trust. And my God, they’ve got a few of those. All over the place.’

  ‘Really?’ said Gray. ‘Can you remember where?’

  ‘Oh – the usual places, Netherland Antilles, Cayman Islands, Bahamas – ’

  ‘Any in Jersey?’ said Gray, thinking sharply of the large purchase of shares in the Channing corporation, that had restored the share price so efficiently that day.

  ‘Not that I
can remember. Why?’

  ‘Oh – just wondered. Anyway, there’s nothing illegal about offshore trusts, you know. They’re just nice easy ways of fighting off the taxman.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But they’re also nice easy ways of throwing up a smokescreen, moving money around. Lot of that going on at Channing, believe me. Anyway, the money from this particular smokescreen seemed to find its way to various places, but one called Staff Benevolent Care which is actually Mrs Clarke’s nursing home. You’d never have found it if you hadn’t been looking.’

  ‘Well, I expect the Clarkes are very proud,’ said Gray, ‘Mrs Clarke wouldn’t have taken the money if she’d known.’

  ‘No, I daresay she wouldn’t. But there were endless other things – he used to give Oliver extra money on top of his university grant, paid for Melinda’s secretarial course, sends them on holiday …’

  ‘I still think that sounds like just kindness, born of guilt,’ said Gray. ‘I really don’t think you can read much into it.’

  ‘OK. Maybe not. But my God, Channing was sensitive about it.’

  ‘He was?’ Gray’s stomach churned harder. He stared at Terri. The room seemed very bright suddenly, and the elevator music (the Carpenters now, for Christ’s sake) had somehow got very loud. ‘What sort of sensitive?’

  ‘Well, he tried to stop me seeing Heather Clarke. He did stop me seeing her. Via Oliver. Told him it might upset her or something.’

  ‘Well, I expect he didn’t want her worried,’ said Gray.

  ‘Didn’t want himself worried, more likely. I talked to her briefly at the funeral. Poor soul. Poor deluded soul. She thinks the sun shines right out of Bard Channing’s over-sized arse.’

  ‘I still don’t think this adds up to much,’ said Gray, only slightly untruthfully.