The Dilemma

by Penny Vincenzi

  He had a key; he walked in. It was a crudely arrogant thing to do, and he always did it, on the rare occasions he visited her, making it plain that it was his flat, not hers. He looked down at her with distaste; she returned his look, tried to smile.

  ‘Hi,’ she said. He ignored the greeting.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  She shrugged. ‘To give me a bollocking, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’

  ‘You swear.’

  He ignored this too. ‘What’s the matter with you, anyway? You look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He was obviously waiting for an answer: reluctantly she said, ‘I don’t know. Some bug, I suppose. I was in bed.’

  ‘I see. Well, this won’t take long, then you can go back there.’

  He walked over to the window, turned round, his back to the light, so she couldn’t see his face clearly; it was another trick, employed, she had read, by brainwashers. She sat looking up at him, keeping her own face as blank as she could.

  ‘Kirsten,’ he said, speaking quite quietly, ‘I have often wondered if you were actually bad, or just plain stupid. I think I have finally decided today. I have to give you the benefit of the doubt. You are stupid. Painfully. Unbelievably. Dangerously. Criminally. Stupid.’ The words came out slowly, with a full stop sounding between each one. ‘How otherwise can you possibly imagine that after all that happened earlier this year, with you and the press, it would be acceptable for you to arrange for a journalist to come into my mother’s home, and interview her? How? How can you indulge in such abysmal behaviour? How can you be so dense, so obtuse, so arrogantly cretinous? Words fail me, Kirsten, they really do.’

  ‘They don’t seem to,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t answer me back.’ He stood up, and she thought for a moment he was going to hit her. Then he said, ‘Well. Would you like to try and explain?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed? And why not?’

  ‘Because there would be no point. You’d only distort any explanation I might give you, destroy it.’

  ‘You appal me,’ he said, ‘you really do.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘But it doesn’t greatly trouble you. Is that right?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘No doubt you will tell me that he’s a friend, that he meant no harm. He’s a financial journalist, Kirsten, and they will stop at nothing, nothing at all, to get a story. And this one, this Mr Townsend, has been doing rather a lot. He is hugely dangerous, and he has been most painstakingly collecting together a great many unpleasant facts about me, in order discredit me further. And you have helped him, by introducing him to my mother, taking him to her home – ’

  ‘What?’ She was so shocked, so amazed, she forgot to be frightened. ‘Dad, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Graydon wanted to talk to Granny Jess about politics.’

  ‘And you believed that?’

  ‘Yes of course I did. He did talk to her about politics anyway, she told me so.’

  ‘Kirsten, that man is a liar. He’ll tell anybody anything, I do assure you. He’s inveigled himself into other people’s confidence in the same way. And then found out whatever he needs to know. Have you talked to him about me?’

  ‘No. No of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, I hope for your sake as much as for mine that is true. I want your absolute promise you will never, ever, have anything to do with this creature, or any other of his kind, again. God in heaven, you are truly pathetic. Mindless, half witted, pathetic.’

  It was that which stung her, finally, into saying it. She didn’t mind, quite so much, all the rest; she had heard it before, that she appalled him, that she was cretinous, but the total diminishment of that ‘pathetic’ was too much.

  ‘I am not pathetic,’ she said, ‘nor am I a great many of the other things you called me. I’ll tell you who’s pathetic, Dad; you are. Hiding behind that great company of yours, behind your staff, bullying the world. That’s pathetic. Only now it’s gone, your company, what’ll you do? Find another hiding place, or run away, like all bullies.’

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘please.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no I won’t. You are a bully, a bully and a thug.’

  Then he did hit her; he stepped forward and slapped her hard, across the face. ‘Apologise for that,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, facing him, resisting with difficulty the desire to put her hand up, to cover her cheek, ‘I won’t. You don’t deserve any apology.’ Amazingly now, she had come through the pain and the fear, felt a strong, a heady freedom and power. And knew suddenly how to hurt him: and wanted to. Wanted to very much. She looked at him, waited for a moment, savouring it, and then said, ‘And instead of criticising me, and attacking me all the time, why don’t you look a bit nearer home?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Francesca what she’s been doing, visiting Liam in hospital three times a week. Ask Liam why he was at your house the other day, while you were safely in New York or Stockholm or whatever. Ask both of them about the kisses they were blowing each other on your doorstep. The champagne they were drinking from your cellar. Go on. And just get off my back and leave me alone.’

  There was a very long silence. She stood there, listening to it, watching him: he was absolutely white, with two brilliant patches of colour burning high on his cheekbones. His black eyes seemed to be probing into her, she could almost feel their force.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ he said, his voice quite low, and then stepped forward and caught her wrist. ‘Just explain yourself, or I swear to God I shall thrash you, right here, where I stand.’

  ‘There’s nothing more that I can explain,’ said Kirsten, ‘and you’ve done enough thrashing for one day. You’ll have to ask them. I’ve told you all I know.’

  He turned away from her, walked out of the room, out of her flat and probably, she thought, her life; she stood there, her eyes closed, shaking violently, half glad, half sorry at what she had done.

  Barnaby let himself into Kirsten’s flat whistling cheerfully; he had a good evening planned. Morag had phoned him, asked him to a party, and had indicated that she’d like to resume their relationship; on the basis of that, Barnaby felt a few pounds invested carefully before the party would probably yield considerable dividends afterwards. There were only two problems: one, that he had no money at all, and the second, that he would need to square it with Kirsten that he could bring Morag back to her flat for the night. He obviously couldn’t take Morag to his father’s house, and she lived with three gross blokes whom he really didn’t like at all, but Kirsten could be a bit funny over his arrangements. Only a week before he’d been there, having a quiet smoke with a few friends, and playing some music quite low, and she’d come storming in, telling him to shut up and get his friends out of her flat fast. He certainly didn’t want that happening when he was in bed with Morag. Or trying to get in bed with Morag.

  He’d have to get something of his own sorted soon, accommodation-wise; he couldn’t go on living with his father, it was ridiculous. On the other hand it was pretty cushy there, everything done for him, washing, ironing, cooking, and Francesca was always a soft touch when he needed to borrow some money. He really did intend to pay it all back one day; he liked Francesca, she was a real babe. She’d been great over the Kirsten thing, given what seemed to Barnaby some really good advice. He must tell Kirsten what she’d said, maybe even this evening before he went out …

  And if he wasn’t living at home, of course, he’d need some proper money, for rent and food and so on, and he really didn’t fancy the thought of a job; all the things his friends did in the holidays were dire, stacking shelves at supermarkets and humping plants round garden centres, and some of them even cleaning, for God’s sake. If you set that against being moderately polite to your father and turning up for meals sometimes and expressing gratitude about thre
e times a week, it was no contest really.

  Anyway, he couldn’t really borrow any more money from Francesca, not after the twenty quid she’d lent him on Saturday, and the bank had refused his card the last three times he’d tried to get some cash; he’d just have to try Kirsten. She certainly didn’t need much money at the moment.

  He shut the door behind him, called out to her; there was no answer. Maybe she’d gone out, maybe she was feeling better. That’d be good. He was very fond of Kirsten, genuinely sorry for her in her wretched situation. And if she felt better, it’d be easier for her to make some kind of a decision.

  He went into the kitchen, plugged in the kettle, switched on the radio. He was just checking the petty-cash tin, kept in one of the drawers by Kirsten for purchases of such essentials as teabags, milk and alcohol, in the hope that he might find even a small contribution towards his evening, when he heard her voice.

  ‘Hi.’

  Barnaby looked up; she was standing in the doorway, looking absolutely appalling, She was ashen-pale, even her mouth; her eyes were great dark sockets in her face, her hair was dragged back from her face. She was leaning heavily on the doorpost, as if she had no strength in her legs. She had, he realised, lost a lot of weight, her face looked thin and gaunt, her arms like sticks, even her jeans loose.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘you OK?’

  ‘No. Not really. I just – oh Barney, I don’t know what to do, I feel so terrible, I – ’

  She burst into tears, deep painful sobs. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘come on, it’s not that bad,’ and went over to her, gave her a hug, led her into the sitting room. She sat down on the sofa, still crying; he looked at her rather helplessly.

  ‘Kirsten, what is it, has something happened, has someone upset you – ’

  ‘No,’ she said, rocking backwards and forwards, her arms folded over her stomach, ‘nothing’s happened, well, it has, but it’s me, I’m so awful, Barney, I’m so ashamed of myself, I’m such an awful, fucking bitch, God, I wish I was dead, I really really do.’

  Barnaby looked at her in silence; he was no good in this sort of situation. And she certainly needed someone, needed them badly. Tory would have done, but Tory was away for a couple of days. Francesca would have done, but she and Kirsten were hardly bosom friends. Who, who on earth could he get to help? Granny Jess? But she might be shocked – well, not shocked, she was unshockable, but upset – about the baby. His father? He’d been pretty good in France, but on the other hand, he did have a lot of problems, and he was still at daggers drawn with Kirsten. Their mother? All she’d do was cry as well and say she blamed herself and then use it as an excuse to get drunk. It struck Barnaby with great force suddenly that he and Kirsten – and Tory for that matter, only rather less so because she somehow needed less help, was more sensible than they were – really were rather alone in the world. It was a scary feeling.

  ‘Look,’ he said finally, ‘you’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning. Tell me what’s happened today, at least.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, rocking more violently still, ‘I really can’t, it’s too bad, it’s terrible, I feel so ashamed, don’t ask me that, Barnaby, please.’

  ‘Kirsten, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the matter is.’

  ‘Nobody can help me,’ she said, starting to cry again, ‘nobody. Because I’m so bad, I’ve fucked up my whole life and other people’s lives, I just think I ought to be – oh, I don’t know, put away or something. Oh, God, now I’m going to be sick again.’

  She ran out of the room; Barnaby turned up the radio to drown any unpleasant noises and was just thinking he might try and and get hold of Francesca when the phone rang.

  It was Morag.

  ‘Hi. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘I mean for tonight?’

  ‘Well, actually I’m not quite sure, now, I might – ’

  ‘Oh Barnaby, for Christ’s sake.’ She sounded extremely cross. ‘You’re not going to let me down, are you? I’ve turned down two other things for this evening. Well, suit yourself, I really don’t care – ’

  ‘Well, I – Morag, don’t go.’ Barnaby had a sudden vision of her as he had last seen her, stark naked, kneeling above him in bed, her expert mouth doing unbearably exquisite things to him. It had taken quite a bit of work on Saturday, not to mention expense, to get her back. He really didn’t want to waste it. Kirsten would be all right. She would be fine. She was only a bit over-emotional because of her condition. And he could be with her all the rest of the week. It was only tonight.

  ‘No, honestly, just a bit of a problem with – with my dad. But I can sort it. Yeah. It’s cool. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘Meet? That sounds very grown up, Barnaby. I thought we’d meet, as you put it, at the party.’

  ‘No, I thought we could go for a drink first.’

  ‘Oh – OK. Where?’

  ‘Um – Covent Garden? Party’s in Pimlico, isn’t it?’

  ‘Great. See you outside the Brahms and Liszt. In an hour.’

  He put the phone down, waited for Kirsten’s return. She came in, looking glassy pale, sat down rather uncertainly on the sofa.

  ‘Sorry. Feel a bit better now.’

  ‘Do you really not want to talk about it? Any of it? You see, I really think you ought to talk to – ’

  ‘Barney, I’ve told you, I don’t want to talk about it. Not really. No point, I’m afraid. Nothing anyone can do.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Barnaby, grateful for the reprieve at least. ‘Like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. That’d be great. You going out tonight?’ Her voice was still shaky, but she managed a smile of sorts.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said slightly hestitantly. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Need some money? I can lend you a tenner.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, relief flooding him. She couldn’t be feeling too bad if she was prepared to finance him. ‘You’re OK, Kirsten, you know that?’

  ‘I’m not, I’m afraid,’ she said, lying back, resting her head on the back of the sofa, ‘I’m not OK at all.’

  Just before he left to go and meet Morag he heard her crying again from her room. Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Melinda phoned Oliver at the office just as he was embarking on another load of photocopying and asked him if he’d like to meet her for a drink.

  ‘It might cheer you up a bit. A few of us from work are going, just to Covent Garden. Sarah’s coming, you know you liked Sarah, and Nick, and – ’

  ‘No, I won’t, thanks,’ said Oliver. Sarah and Nick were both workmates of Melinda’s and he found them both profoundly irritating, Sarah with her capacity for giggling at everything he said, and her rather vapid prettiness, and Nick who could and did bore for England on the subject of rambling and ramblers’ rights of way. ‘It’s very nice of you, Melinda, but I’m going to be tied up here for ages.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a shame. Because I thought then we could travel home together, I’m feeling really tired and not very well – ’

  ‘If you’re feeling not very well,’ said Oliver briskly, ‘you shouldn’t be going out drinking in Covent Garden.’

  ‘I thought it might cheer me up,’ said Melinda plaintively. ‘It’s only one of my headaches and it’s not a lot to ask, Mum said herself she worries about me being alone on the Tube late at night – ’

  ‘Yes all right, all right,’ said Oliver, ‘I tell you what, I’ll come and pick you up at – what shall we say, nine? You shouldn’t stay out later than that anyway, if you’ve got a bad headache. Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh – Tuttons, I think. If we’re not there, we’ll be in Rumours. Yes, all right, come at nine. That’ll be nice. Then you can still have a drink with us.’

  ‘No Melinda,’ said Oliver, ‘I honestly don’t want to have a drink with you. I’m sorry. I’ll just pick you up and we’ll go home. What
I’m doing at the moment isn’t much fun, you know.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I thought of this, it would cheer you up.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t work, I’m afraid. Thank you for the kind thought anyway. Now, I’ll see you at nine, OK?’

  ‘Yes, OK,’ said Melinda.

  Gray hadn’t had the heart to go in search of a decent meal, had settled for the hotel offering. It was dark brown lamb; he ate it because he was so hungry, drank a great deal of indifferent red wine, and found himself pacing his small, hot, claustrophobic room just after ten quite unable to sleep, sweating, with bad indigestion and, for the second time that day, a sense of feverish panic. The panic was so severe he had an urge, rare for him now, but more common in his youth, simply to run away, hide, disappear, wait for whatever problem, whatever chaos he had found himself in, to recede.

  ‘Graydon Townsend,’ he said to himself aloud, ‘you’re cracking up. This won’t solve a thing.’

  He knew he’d feel better if he went out for a walk, but he couldn’t face it, so he made himself some tea (wonderfully weak at least) with the kettle and teabag that are now the mark of the indifferent hotel, the one that cannot afford room service, and settled on the bed, leaning against the cheap, lumpy pillows, trying to think positively. This was a tough one. He hadn’t, stupidly, realised how hard it would be, had imagined Jersey would be more forthcoming. In the Cayman Islands, for instance, all the lawyers running offshore companies of various kinds were situated, neatly convenient, in a long line all down one street; it was almost folksy, you had only to get into the offices to start snooping. He cursed Guthrie for not letting him go there. Here, he could clearly snoop for a year and not begin to get anywhere. He knew, he knew Ferrers was right, that Channing had been dealing in his own shares, propping them up, that two pukka, half-million-pound share purchases by anyone else at that point in the game just wouldn’t have happened, it was too much of a fairy story, too good, for Channing, to be true. They had been bought here, for Channing, through that trust; he knew it, all he had to do was prove it. But how, for God’s sake? How did you find even the registered address of a company whose name you did not know, which could be anything, any word in the dictionary, Alpha to Omega, beginning to end; it was impossible. He sat there, drinking tea, doodling, trying the old trick of forcing thoughts out; wrote down the words Bard Channing over and over again, pushing his pen into the paper. It didn’t do any good. The pain in his chest was worse, he felt claustrophobic, almost frightened by it; to distract himself he picked up the Times crossword, started trying to do it. He was hopeless at crosswords, always had been; Briony used to tease him about it, say he was always so fussy about words, about their proper meaning, using them right, he should be able to play all sorts of complicated games with them. But two clues was about all he could ever manage and certainly all he could manage that night; there were endless anagrams after that and anagrams always seemed to him to be the most pointless of exercises: words that bore no relation to other words, either in sense or structure. What kind of schmuck would know what ‘Easy for example, involving MD in mishap’ meant? He lay back crossly on his pillows staring at the paper and then at the words Bard Channing; and suddenly, suddenly he sat up, grabbed the pen and started playing with letters.