The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes, I do. Anyway, keep in touch with Marcia, she’ll be expecting your calls.’

  ‘Fine. Bard, I really am grateful. I just don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘that must be a first.’

  He sat back in his chair then, looked at her, his dark eyes very intense. ‘Rachel, what – what made you think that there was – might be – a problem?’

  ‘Bard, I was married to a man whose entire life was a series of problems. I got to know the signs.’ She stood up, walked round the desk, and bent and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘You’re a very nice man, Bard Channing. Francesca is lucky to have you.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, ‘Christ, I don’t know that she is.’

  In the heart of the City that golden Monday morning, Desmond North at Methuens Bank received a report from one of the members of his department that the Channing Corporation was yet again behind on the interest payments on their loan.

  ‘This is the third time in six months, Mr North. I just thought you ought to know. I realise the report from the accountants was OK, but – ’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Tim. I’ll have a look at it straight away.’

  If Desmond North had not received that very morning the final details and tickets for the cruise to the West Indies that he and his wife were taking in exactly six months’ time (to be followed by a longed-for move to the West Country and the thatched cottage with its large garden that he had recently purchased), he might not have acted as he did. In the event he decided nothing could be allowed to come between him and the certain happiness of that: he had spent forty long and very tough years in the devoted service of Methuens, and he wanted his reward.

  He called a meeting of the other board members at a mutually convenient time to discuss the Channing account: six that evening was the earliest they could all attend.

  Francesca had just come in from the gym when Liam phoned. Half exasperated, half guiltily pleased by his voice, she sat down on the bed, started pulling off her shoes.

  ‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Liam, thank you. How are you?’

  ‘Oh – all right. Lonely. Are you missing me?’

  ‘No of course I’m not missing you,’ she said. But she was: she knew she was. Missing the long, easy, charming conversations, missing the edgy, near-guilt of being with him, missing the light, heady pleasure of sensing a new attraction, a new desire.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame. I’m missing you. What are you doing?’

  ‘Sitting on the bed,’ said Francesca, ‘taking my – my shoes off.’

  ‘Only your shoes? I wish I was there, to help with the rest.’

  ‘Oh, Liam, really!’ she said, laughing. ‘Yes, only my shoes. Well – at the moment. I’ve been to the gym.’

  ‘Yes, Sandie said you were there.’

  ‘Sandie! You talked to Sandie! Liam you shouldn’t, it’s awfully silly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because – because you shouldn’t. And she doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, laughing, ‘you can’t have it both ways. You can’t say we’re just friends, and then that I shouldn’t ring you up. Or are you saying I’m more than a friend after all?’

  ‘No! Yes. Oh Liam, I don’t know. I just think it’s silly. That’s all.’

  ‘Could I see you today?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, because I’m busy.’

  ‘Doing what? You make time for your other friends, you were having lunch with lots of them last week. Please, Francesca! Can’t we meet for a picnic or something? I’m awfully lonely and I’d like it so much.’

  Francesca hesitated. She looked at the day ahead: an empty, silly day. Nanny had already taken Kitty out for a walk, Jack was at school, later he was going to a party. Bard was probably going to be very late. She had to work on her advertising sales for the charity brochure, she had to get her hair done, she had thought of having her legs waxed. What a day, what a way, for an intelligent woman to pass. And she was, she had to admit, nervous, edgy now about the trip to Ireland, of the new, sternly distant Bard, of the heavy silences, the lack of ease.

  And she thought of meeting Liam, of the fun they would have, how much she would enjoy it, how much he would tease her, how much she would laugh. And the very fact the temptation was so strong, so heady, made her say no.

  ‘I’m sorry, Liam, I really can’t. I’d love to, but – ’

  ‘Would you? Would you really? Because I’d really really love to. Love to see you, be with you, talk to you, look at you. Just as a friend, of course.’

  ‘Well, I’d like to, she said firmly, her resolve strengthened further by her leaping pleasure at his words, his tone, ‘but I can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry.’

  He sighed. ‘All right. You’re a hard woman. But I shall try again. I can’t live without you now.’

  ‘Liam, of course you can,’ she said, laughing. ‘You have to.’

  ‘Francesca darling, I can’t.’

  ‘Liam, don’t call me that,’ she said sharply, shocked as much by a small sweet rush of pleasure at the word – Bard never called her darling, never called her by any endearment – as that he had said it all.

  ‘Sorry. Francesca, then, I can’t live without you. How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I’m going to Ireland. With my husband.’

  ‘Ah yes, the birthday treat. Well, I hope he enjoys it, the lucky old sod, I hope he knows how lucky he is. Ring me when you’re back.’

  ‘Liam, I’m not going to ring you.’

  ‘Then I shall ring you,’ he said, and then, his tone much more serious, ‘I have to, Francesca, you just don’t seem to understand.’

  ‘Hopkins,’ said Gray. ‘Babbacombe, South Devon.’

  ‘How are you spelling that?’

  ‘I am not spelling it,’ said Gray, ‘it is spelt – ’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said wearily. He really should know better than to try and teach grammar to the staff of Directory Enquiries. ‘It is spelt H-O-P-K-I-N-S.’

  ‘No, not Hopkins,’ said the voice, sounding almost as weary. ‘Babbacombe.’

  ‘Oh, I see. B-A-double B-A — ’

  ‘Oh, yes. One moment please.’

  The robotic voice came on the line. ‘The number you require is 01803 777912 …’

  Gray punched the air. He couldn’t believe it. They hadn’t moved, they were still there, sitting there, sitting ducks. This was much too good to be true. He was so excited he forgot to thank the robotic voice. He always did that. He knew it was absurd, but he couldn’t help it. He was an only child, into whom formally good manners had been dinned from his first breath.

  ‘Mrs Hopkins?’

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was light, pleasant.

  ‘Mrs Hopkins, I wonder if Mr Hopkins is there?’

  ‘Not just at the moment. Who is it wants him?’

  ‘My name is Graydon Townsend. He doesn’t know me. I’m writing a book about ’sixties architecture. I found his name in some old records. I would really like to talk to him.’

  ‘Oh – oh, I see. Well, I can ask him, Mr Townsend. He retired quite a long time ago, I don’t know how much use he could be to you.’

  ‘Well – it’s worth a try. I’m told he is a mine of information on the subject.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She sounded pleased. ‘Well, as I say I can only ask him. He’s out now, playing golf.’

  ‘I see. Er – how is he? I understood he’d not been well, that he retired early.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, he did. About eight years ago now. Well, he’s not too bad considering. He had a couple of heart attacks, not too serious thank goodness, and since he came down here and got rid of all that stress, he’s been a lot better.’

  ‘Good. Excellent.
I’ll hope to hear from you, then. Thank you, Mrs Hopkins.’

  If he ever heard from Clive Hopkins, Gray thought, his name was Bard Channing.

  As she drove home, Rachel thought about demolishing the house, what it would really mean. She thought of the house and how much she loved it already, thought of walking through it as she had with Mary, as well as with Bard and Reverend Mother, of the atmosphere it had of grace and serenity, of the chapel, the outbuildings, the lawn sloping down to the cliff edge; and then she thought of Mary and Richard and all the others, who needed security, who needed to be together, safe with people they loved and who loved and cared for them, and when she got home, she phoned Reverend Mother and told her what Bard had proposed and that she had been forced to agree unless Reverend Mother felt there was a very strong reason for not doing so.

  Reverend Mother smiled down the phone: Rachel could hear it. ‘Rachel,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose the stable at Bethlehem was particularly beautiful. It served a very good purpose, wouldn’t you say?’

  Oliver had been trying to sift through the expenses incurred by the PR department all morning; he was just thinking he might suggest that all restaurant bills went onto the Company Amex account, rather than the rather haphazard system employed at present, of cash when people had it, cheques when they didn’t, company cards for the chosen few allowed them, when Bard Channing walked through his small office and into Pete Barbour’s. He was clearly, even for him, in an exceptional hurry; as he passed Oliver’s desk, something dropped from within the great sheaf of papers he was carrying. Oliver bent to pick it up; it was a gold Mont Blanc fountain pen. He looked into the room; the door was not shut (his signal to stay out at all costs), and Bard was rifling now through his papers, clearly looking for something; probably the pen, thought Oliver, and knocking gently first, went into the room.

  They did not hear him: Bard was leaning across Pete’s desk, tapping into his small personal computer, pointing something out to him; Pete was shaking his head.

  ‘What about some of the offshore accounts?’ he said. ‘What about the Antilles? Is there something we can do there?’

  ‘Christ Pete, I really don’t want to start on those.’

  ‘Why not, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because they’re some kind of insurance, that’s why – Oliver, what the fuck are you doing there?’

  Bard had seen him suddenly; Oliver was startled, almost scared, by the strength of his reaction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Channing, I found – ’

  ‘I don’t care what the fuck you found, don’t start creeping round this place like some fucking toad out from under a stone. Get out of here, at once, and don’t come in again unless you’re actually invited. Which is extremely unlikely.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Channing, very sorry.’

  He left the room quickly, shut the door carefully, sat down at his desk feeling very shaken. The man really was a monster. If that was the sort of thing Kirsten had had to put up with all her childhood, no wonder she was a bit of a nutter.

  ‘Is that Mr Townsend?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Mr Townsend, this is Clive Hopkins. My wife said you’d phoned. About some book, was it?’

  Five minutes later, Gray put the phone down and smiled radiantly across at Tricia.

  ‘In future,’ he said, ‘you’re to address me as Bard Channing.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Tricia.

  ‘You look depressed, Francesca. Shall I tell you a good bogey joke?’

  ‘Barnaby, I’m not depressed, I’m fine,’ said Francesca wearily, looking at him over the lunch table, ‘and if I was depressed, a bogey joke wouldn’t exactly cheer me up.’

  ‘I want to hear it,’ said Jack, ‘tell me it, Barney, go on, then I can tell it in News tomorrow – ’

  ‘Barnaby, if you dare to tell Jack any more bogey jokes I shall throw you out of this house,’ said Francesca. ‘And what are you doing this evening, because your father’s very tired and he’ll want some peace and quiet.’

  ‘I won’t spoil his peace and quiet,’ said Barnaby, his face a study in innocence, ‘I’ll just sit reading quietly in a corner.’

  ‘Barnaby, you never do anything quietly,’ said Francesca, ‘and you never read anything either, except those horrible girlie magazines.’

  ‘What, with their bosoms and bottoms showing? They’re funny!’ said Jack.

  ‘Barnaby, you haven’t been letting Jack see them, have you?’ said Francesca. She could feel a flush rising in her face. ‘That is really naughty, I can’t – ’

  ‘He couldn’t help it,’ said Jack staunchly. ‘I went in his room, to get my worms – ’

  ‘What worms?’

  ‘From my tunnel. I hid them there, cos Nanny doesn’t like them. Barnaby didn’t even know. They’re for Dad’s birthday.’

  ‘Now what is worse, I ask you?’ said Barnaby laughing. ‘Worms dumped in your room, or girlie magazines?’

  ‘Honestly,’ said Francesca, ‘sometimes I think I’m going completely mad in this house.’

  ‘You’re the sanest person in it,’ said Barnaby, giving her a hug. ‘It’s all right, I’m going out now. Won’t be back till late. Going clubbing with Morag – remember Morag, great legs, big ti — I mean, eyes.’

  ‘You were going to say tits,’ said Jack, ‘same as the ones in your magazines.’

  ‘Jack, go and find Nanny,’ said Francesca wearily. ‘She wants to take you to the swings.’

  ‘Has Nanny got big tits, Barnaby?’ said Jack. ‘Under her blouse, what do you think?’

  ‘Barnaby,’ said Francesca, ‘please, please go and destroy those magazines immediately.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘sorry. Really sorry. I didn’t know he was going to be in my room. Oh, and Francesca – ’

  ‘Yes, Barnaby?’

  ‘If I don’t see you before, good luck tomorrow. With Dad’s birthday.’ She looked at him sharply, but his blue eyes were sweetly thoughtful as he looked at her. He was, in spite of everything, kind and extremely perceptive. And deep down, nice.

  ‘Thank you, Barnaby.’

  ‘Damn!’ said Jean Rivers, putting the phone down. ‘Damn damn damn. Sorry, Oliver. Excuse my language!’

  Oliver grinned at her. ‘I’ve heard worse. What’s the matter?’ ‘Oh, it’s these wretched documents. Mr Barbour asked me to get them ring-bound in time for a big presentation in the morning and they’re not ready. They say I can have them at half-past eight, but I can’t be there then. I have to take the girls to school. Oh dear, Mr Barbour’s going to have my guts for garters.’ She was much given to such old-fashioned clichés.

  ‘I’ll pick them up for you,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Oh Oliver, I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘Why not? Honestly, I don’t mind. And I don’t have anyone to take to school – ’

  ‘Oliver, you’re an angel. Anything I can ever do for you – ’

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said Oliver. ‘Where’s the firm?’

  ‘Off Broadgate. Here’s the address. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s no problem. Honestly.’

  Jean Rivers smiled up at him. ‘That’s really nice of you. Thank you.’

  Francesca was eating her supper in front of Panorama when Barnaby came into her room. Bard was at some City dinner, but had rung to say he wouldn’t be late. His mood was still odd, distant; she was struggling not to resent it, to appear the same herself. She was worried, almost fearful, about the next day, hoping against hope it would be all right, that it would work some magic, bring them close again; fearing it would not, that her lovely plan would misfire, be misunderstood, make matters somehow worse. Bard was becoming each day more of a stranger; she felt unable to predict in any way what he would or would not like. She had already packed her bag, had phoned the Dromoland, asked them to be sure there was champagne on ice in their suite when they arrived, extra flowers, a car available. There was nothing more she could d
o now, except hope absurdly, irritatingly nervous, for the best. And she was very pleased to see Barnaby.

  ‘Hallo Barnaby. Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes. No.’

  ‘I thought you were out on a hot date.’

  ‘I was. It turned out to be rather a cold one.’

  ‘Oh Barnaby, I’m sorry. Here, have a glass of wine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He drank it down as if it were milk, held it out for a refill.

  ‘I wish I could go to Ireland for forty-eight hours with you, Francesca,’ he said, looking at her and grinning. ‘We’d have a really good time.’

  ‘Are you implying your father and I won’t have a good time?’

  ‘Not as good as you’d have with me,’ said Barnaby. He spoke with enormous confidence. Francesca laughed.

  ‘Well, if anything goes wrong – ’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Happy birthday, Bard.’

  He had just woken up; she had scarcely slept herself, had been lying beside him ever since dawn broke, worrying, absurdly.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I said happy birthday.’ She leant over, kissed him; he returned the kiss perfunctorily. ‘It’s today.’

  ‘Good God, is it really? Do you know, I had completely forgotten.’ He smiled at her slightly uncertainly. ‘Thank you. How – ’

  ‘Happy birthday, Dad.’ Jack burst through the door, zoomed onto the bed, flung himself into his father’s arms. ‘Lots of happy returns.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack. This is very nice. Here I am an old man of fifty-four, I shouldn’t still be having birthdays.’

  ‘You have to have birthdays,’ said Jack, ‘everyone does, that’s why you do get old.’

  ‘Very true,’ said Bard. ‘And do you have a present for me?’

  ‘Yup. I made it myself. I’ll get it.’

  He disappeared, came back with a jam jar apparently filled with earth.

  ‘How very nice,’ said Bard. ‘Er – what is it? Exactly?’