‘Francesca? It’s Liam. You OK?’
She had been longing to hear his voice: she was longing for him in every way. She had never felt like this before, this physical craving; she wondered if it was how an alcoholic, an addict felt. All she wanted was to be in bed with him again, experiencing him, experiencing the strangeness, the raw, relentless force of him. And yet, even as she wanted it, she was afraid of it, this strange addiction; it had a darkness, a threatening quality to it that she couldn’t understand, did not recognise.
‘Francesca? Darling, are you all right?’
‘What? Oh yes. Yes, I think so.’
‘You sound very odd. What’s the the matter?’
‘Oh – nothing really.’
‘I can tell there is.’
‘No honestly. Well, life’s rather – confusing at the moment. Obviously.’
‘Yes, of course. Is he back?’
‘Well, he is, but – ’
‘But what? Is he there, in the house?’
‘Not yet. It’s not that. It’s just all so complicated.’
‘ “Complicated?” In what sort of way?’
‘Liam, I’m sorry, but I can’t talk now.’
‘Why?’
‘I just can’t,’ she said wearily. ‘That’s all. It’s quite late, and I’m desperately tired.’
‘I miss you so much,’ he said. ‘I just want to be with you, all the time, now that I – well, now. It was good, wasn’t it, Francesca? So good?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, her body churning again at the memory. ‘Yes, it was. Liam – ’ She had been going to ask to see him next day, had stopped somehow, determined to keep herself, the whole thing in check, until at least she knew what she was going to do about Bard.
‘What? What were you going to say?’
‘Oh – nothing. How’s Naomi? Is she back?’
‘Back?’
‘Yes, back. I thought she’d been away.’
‘Oh – oh, yes. Yes, she’s back. I only hesitated because I hardly notice the difference. She never talks to me, she’s never here for meals even, I mean she’s still out now and it’s – well, what is the time? God, half-past eight, well, you see what I mean. I might as well be living completely alone.’
‘Oh Liam. I’m so sorry. Well, it’s much the same for me at the moment. If that’s any comfort to you.’
‘Not much. I suppose there’s no point trying to persuade you to meet me tomorrow.’
‘No,’ she said, forcing the words out, knowing if she agreed she was lost, that each meeting was more dangerous than the last. ‘No point at all. Now look, I’d better go. I’ll – well, I’ll call you in a day or two.’
‘All right. But please, I want you to know, if you really need me, I’m here for you, any time. Any time at all. Just pick up the phone and – ’
‘Yes, Liam, all right. Bye now.’
‘Goodbye, Francesca darling. I love you.’
She put the phone down, sat feeling very shaken. It was very dangerous talking to Liam on the phone. He had this ability to reach out to her, to make her feel he was there, with her, comforting her, touching her even: it was the voice, of course, the beautiful, emotive, persuasive voice. And just for a moment, a terrible, overwhelming moment, she had wanted to tell him. Well, not exactly tell him, but talk about her dilemma: in the vaguest possible way, obviously. She needed to talk to someone quite badly now; she was beginning to feel she was going mad, the whole thing going round and round physically inside her head, battering ceaselessly against her brain, unable to get out, tormenting her with its presence until she made her decision. It was horrible, awful.
Her phone rang again suddenly. ‘Francesca? It’s Bard.’
She was surprised to hear his voice: she had assumed he was still in Devon. ‘Bard!’ she said now. ‘Hallo. How are – ’
‘I’m on my way home,’ he said. ‘I’ll be about half an hour. Please be there when I get back, I want to talk to you.’
He sounded odd: strange, harsh, almost threatening. A shoot of unease uncurled within Francesca, a dart of panic; she put down the phone, stood staring at it taking deep breaths, her heart-of-the-night fears surfacing sharply, vividly, into daytime and reality. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous, that there was nothing to be fearful of, that he probably wanted to talk to her again about what he had asked, and went to her dressing table and brushed her hair. It looked terrible, she thought absently; it needed cutting. But that seemed, like everything else, totally inappropriate at the moment.
It wasn’t going very well; Barnaby was beginning to feel depressed. Morag was in a ridiculous mood, terribly hyper; she had been drinking even before they met, and she was talking endlessly about absolutely nothing. He thought she had probably had something else as well as alcohol; her dark eyes had a brilliant, slightly glazed look, and she kept lighting cigarettes and stubbing them out after a few puffs. As Barnaby had bought them, he found this extremely irritating. She was wearing a denim shirt, which was hardly buttoned up at all, and a long black linen skirt with a slit up each side of it, and if she wasn’t busy thrusting both her legs out of one slit, she was rearranging them and the skirt and pushing them out of the other. She kept spotting people she knew on the other side of the wine bar and rushing over to them, or shouting and waving at them, and in between she sat, half listening to him, fiddling with her nails and blowing smoke into his face.
They were in a small bar called Backstage, just off Bow Street, near the Opera House; it was very busy for a Monday night, very hot. Barnaby who had already spent the whole of the tenner Kirsten had lent him and six pounds he had found in change in a jacket pocket of hers, was about to suggest to Morag that they moved on to the party when she leapt up with a cry of pleasure and flung herself at a tall man with very little chin and pale blue eyes, with cries of ‘Jimbo’. He looked at her rather uncertainly, and hugged her briefly back.
‘Jimbo, how lovely. Come and join us, who are you with?’
Jimbo said he wasn’t with anyone, just having a quickie on the way home.
‘Then you must have it with us. Barnaby, this is James Dunsley-Thompson. Known to all as Jimbo. Jimbo, Barnaby Channing. Not known to many of us, actually.’ She laughed loudly at her own joke. ‘Barnaby, why don’t we have a bottle of champagne, I feel like celebrating. I haven’t seen Jimbo for ages, have I, not since that foul ball in Glos. Hey – ’ she called a waiter, ‘can we have a bottle of champagne.’
‘Well I – ’
‘Oh now look, Morag, not on my account, in fact my account wouldn’t stand it – ’ Jimbo laughed loudly at this, a high, braying laugh.
‘Oh don’t be silly,’ said Morag, ‘it’s on us, isn’t it, Barnaby?’
‘Er – well – ’
‘Oh Barnaby, don’t be such a pillock. Even if your father has gone bust, he must still have a few millions stashed away.’
‘I say, your father’s not Bard Channing, is he?’ said Jimbo.
‘Yes,’ said Barnaby shortly.
‘Damn shame.’
The champagne arrived; it wasn’t even cold. Barnaby watched miserably while Morag poured it.
‘We’re going to a party, why don’t you come? At Sue Birkhead’s, you know her, don’t you – ’
‘Oh, no, not tonight, Josephine. As they say. Got to catch up on my kip. Heavy weekend.’
‘Jimbo, you’re such a party animal. Go on, do come, it’ll be fun.’
‘Oh – oh, all right.’ He grinned at her, pushed back his mouse-coloured hair. Great, thought Barnaby; fucking great.
‘Barnaby! Hi! How lovely to see you!’
Jesus Christ. It was Melinda. Melinda Clarke, accompanied by two of the nerdiest-looking nerds Barnaby had ever seen.
‘Are you sitting here? Can we join you? Thanks.’
There was a silence while Morag and Jimbo studied the new arrivals and Jimbo smiled politely. Nobody said anything.
‘Hi,’ said Morag finally. ‘Friends of
yours, Barnaby?’
‘Well, a bit more than that,’ said Melinda, ‘actually. Barnaby is my – what would you say you were, Barnaby?’
Barnaby was silent, shrugged helplessly.
‘We sort of grew up together,’ said Melinda. ‘My father was his father’s partner, and – ’
‘Was?’ said Morag icily. ‘What happened?’
‘He died,’ said Melinda.
‘Oh,’ said Morag, ‘how sad.’ She could have said ‘how funny’, for all the sympathy or emotion she put into it. Melinda looked abashed just for a moment, then smiled at her determinedly and turned to Barnaby again.
‘Can we get you a drink, Barnaby?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks. We’re just going. Aren’t we, Morag?’
Morag looked at him coldly. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Oh, well, that’s a shame,’ said Melinda. ‘Oliver’s coming along in a minute. Well, I hope he is. I hope he can find us. I said Rumours but it’s packed, I left a message for him, with the barman, you know, he was very nice but – ’
‘And who is Oliver?’ said Morag. ‘Another friend?’
‘No, my brother. He – ’
‘Don’t tell me, another blood brother for Barnaby. How sweet.’
‘Yes, he works for Mr Channing. My brother does.’
‘Not much longer, I shouldn’t imagine,’ said Morag. ‘Look, Barnaby, are we going to this party or not?’
‘Oliver! Hi!’ Melinda was standing up, waving frantically at Oliver, who was standing uncertainly in the doorway.
‘Christ,’ said Morag under her breath. ‘Barnaby, we’ll wait for you outside, OK? Can you settle the bill? Bye,’ she said to Melinda, ‘really nice to have met you. Come on, Jimbo, let’s get some air.’
Barnaby was left, sweating, with a bill for £62. He wanted to run after them, haul Morag back in, make her pay, but his pride wouldn’t let him. He knew his card would be refused; he’d just have to hope they’d take a cheque. He walked up to the bar, got his chequebook out with more confidence than he felt, wrote the cheque, adding a fiver for a tip, in the hope it would soften up the staff.
‘Thank you, sir. Could I have your card, sir?’
‘Oh God,’ said Barnaby, making a great play of going through his pockets, ‘I don’t seem to have got it. How awfully stupid of me. I – but you can you still take that cheque, can’t you … ?’
‘Sorry, sir, no I can’t. We could take Visa or Access …’
‘No. Sorry. Left those behind as well.’ In his father’s office, long ago, when he had cut them both ostentatiously in half after discovering Barnaby had run up five grand on each of them.
‘Well, I’m sorry, sir, I can’t take this without a card. Could one of your friends – ’ He gestured towards the table. They were all watching. Barnaby, feeling sick, worked his way out of the bar, found Morag and Jimbo. They were already sitting in a taxi.
‘Oh at last, Barnaby, I thought you’d never come.’
‘I’m awfully sorry, but they won’t take my cheque. I’ve left my card behind. Can you help?’
‘Oh Barnaby, honestly. You’re so hopeless,’ said Morag, looking at him with acute distaste.
‘Here,’ said Jimbo, pulling a fifty-pound note out of his wallet, ‘will this help?’
‘Oh – yes. Cheers. Won’t be a minute.’
‘Look,’ said Morag, ‘we’ve been waiting ages. This guy’s getting very impatient. If we’re gone when you get out, just follow us on to the party, OK?’
‘Morag, he’ll wait,’ said Jimbo. He was clearly embarrassed.
‘Not much longer I won’t,’ said the cabbie. ‘Bow Street station’s just there, and I’ve been causing jams here for the last five minutes, thanks to you lot.’
‘Well, can’t you drive round the block or something?’ said Barnaby.
‘Big block, this one. Cost you at least another quid.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, then just go on,’ said Barnaby, finally losing his temper. ‘I’ll catch up with you guys there.’
He’d have to get a bus; even with the fifty quid, he’d have hardly any change. Great.
‘Fine,’ called Morag as the cab pulled away, ‘see you there.’
Barnaby walked slowly back into the bar. He felt very angry. Angry with Morag, angry with Jimbo, but most of all with Melinda, who was sitting at the table talking animatedly to her friends. Oliver was beside her; he always looked so fucking smug, thought Barnaby. Tight-arsed little nerd. God, he disliked him. He nodded to him coldly.
‘Barnaby, come and join us,’ said Melinda. ‘I hope we didn’t drive your friends away.’
Barnaby finished Morag’s glass of champagne, poured himself what was left in the bottle. It had all suddenly gone to his head; he felt very light headed and odd.
‘You did, actually,’ he said, and didn’t smile.
‘Oh,’ said Melinda. She looked very hurt: like a kicked puppy, Barnaby thought.
‘Barnaby,’ said Oliver, quite pleasantly, ‘please apologise to Melinda for that.’
‘Sorry,’ said Barnaby, and belched loudly. He knew he was behaving appallingly, being a brat, but he couldn’t help it.
‘Oh it’s all right,’ said Melinda. ‘I’m afraid we did barge in a bit.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Barnaby, and belched again.
‘Barnaby, I think you’d better go home,’ said Oliver, still pleasantly. ‘Shall I get you a cab?’
He stood up, looking, Barnaby thought, like some model for Burtons or something, all neat and well groomed, and utterly, totally naff. Bloody Oliver, with his good degree and his accountancy qualifications and his bloody perfect manners, Oliver the poor relation, who’d wheedled his way into a job at his father’s office, telling him, Barnaby, what he ought and ought not to do. And this was the person who’d got his sister pregnant.
Barnaby had a sudden vision of Kirsten as he’d last seen her; ashen, gaunt, leaning on the doorpost; remembered hearing her crying as he shut the door, and felt a wave of violent, white-hot anger.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you little turd,’ he said, pushing him down in the chair again.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Oliver. He still spoke pleasantly, but his eyes had suddenly gone much darker: like his father’s, Barnaby thought irrelevantly, when he was about to lose his temper.
‘I said don’t tell me what to do. And maybe you ought to look to your own behaviour before you start making bloody judgments on other people.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what on earth you’re talking about,’ said Oliver.
Barnaby did.
Chapter Twenty-six
Francesca heard the front door slam, heard Bard on the stairs, waited, her heart pounding, telling herself over and over again to be calm, not to allow him to frighten her; but as soon as he walked in, shut the door heavily behind him, she knew she was very frightened indeed. His face was white, and in his forehead the pulse throbbed, and the set of his jaw was so harsh, the expression in his eyes so brilliantly angry, she found it hard to face him, to meet his eyes, not to look away.
‘Hallo,’ she said, trying to sound normal. ‘Good day?’
‘Fucking filthy day,’ he said, ‘thanks to you.’
‘Me! What have I got to do with your day? I haven’t seen you or been near you.’
‘Well, who have you been near, Francesca? Perhaps you’d like to tell me that. Or wouldn’t you want me to know?’
‘Bard,’ she said, consciously taking deep breaths, struggling to sound as level, as normal as possible, ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Is that so? I’m afraid I find that rather hard to believe. Perhaps I’d better give you a few clues. Have you seen my son Liam today?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice so low she could hardly hear it herself. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You haven’t had him here, drunk some champagne with him, given him a few kisses perhaps? Gone to bed with him, even?’
‘Well, would you say that was even a possibility?’
She was silent. Trying desperately to think what to say, how to deal with him, the best way to get through the situation.
‘Francesca, look at me. Have you or have you not been having an affair with Liam?’
Still she was silent.
‘I don’t think I need ask any more, then, do I?’ he said. ‘Do I, Francesca?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice even lower.
He was silent then; looking at her, an expression on his face of such shock, such absolute dislike, she had to look away.
‘How could you have done such a thing?’ he said finally. ‘Slept with my own son? It’s incestuous. It’s disgusting, Francesca. You disgust me.’
‘I’m – sorry. Very sorry that you should feel like that.’
‘Oh indeed? Sorry? And how would you expect me to feel? Would you think I might understand? Pat you on the head, tell you it was quite all right, if it was what you both wanted? For Christ’s sake. Use your fucking brain.’
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