‘Well, clearly I’m not the toughie I thought I was. That’s why I resigned. I don’t want to be in the business of wrecking people’s lives any longer.’
‘Well, that’s very high minded of you,’ she said, ‘and I suppose I ought to admire it, but I just find it all part of the same thing. A bit hard to take, suddenly. Sorry, Gray. You’ll have to find some other high-minded person to mother your babies. Maybe you could even persuade Kirsten to change her mind.’
‘Shit,’ said Gray, picking up the nearest heavy object (his juicer) from the table and hurling it at the door she had just closed behind her. ‘Holy bloody shit.’
Oliver was sitting in the small garden, drinking a can of Budweiser and trying to read the paper; he still felt slightly shell-shocked from his interview with Bard Channing the day before. It had been one of the strangest experiences of his life. The strangest thing had been Channing’s calm, the way he had thanked him for letting him know, and then, more courteously than Oliver could ever remember, shown him out of the house. Oliver had looked back once and he had still been standing at the top of the steps, staring after him. Yet he had obviously had no idea; had been very shocked. Poor bloke. Life wasn’t exactly good for him at the moment.
Oliver tried again to concentrate on his paper, and also on not listening to Melinda and her friend discussing their wardrobes for their forthcoming holiday in Italy. They had already covered swimsuits and whether the high-cut legs were more flattering than the standard, and the problem of their necessitating a bikini wax and whether a second wax during the course of the holiday would be necessary in which case was the do-it-yourself kit adequate, or would they need to go to a beauty salon somewhere in Italy, and had now moved on to other items.
‘I’ve got a really nice dress for the evenings,’ Melinda was saying, ‘halter neck, quite short, I got it in the Top Shop sale. And then I’ve got a couple of pairs of shorts. Oh, and a culotte dress.’
‘I’ve got one of those,’ said the friend, whose name was Tara, ‘it’s really sweet, it’s cream with little flowers on.’
‘Oh, what, from Next? Oh, no, mine’s the same – ’ there was much giggling at this point – ‘we’ll look like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’
‘Heavenly twins more like it. Trouble with them is, it’s such a performance when you want to go to the loo, you have to take them right off and – Oliver, is that the phone?’
‘Yeah,’ said Oliver, deeply grateful for the interruption. It was bound to be for Melinda and then he could stay indoors without appearing to be rude; he didn’t like to risk hurting people’s feelings even if they were unlikely to notice.
The call wasn’t for Melinda.
‘Oliver? Hi, Oliver, this is Barnaby. Barnaby Channing.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Oliver. He would have been pleased to hear from a lot of people that day; Barnaby was not one of them. It clearly showed in his voice.
‘There’s no need to sound like that,’ said Barnaby slightly plaintively, ‘I’ve just come from the hospital.’
‘What were you doing in hospital?’
‘I wasn’t in hospital. Kirsten was.’
‘Kirsten’s in hospital?’ Oliver sat down abruptly on the hall chair. ‘Why, which hospital, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Well, you know she’s having the – the thing done today. At the Princess Diana.’
‘Oh,’ said Oliver. He tried to work out how he felt about that and couldn’t. ‘Oh, I see. Well, is she – is she all right?’
‘Yeah, I think so. The doctor woman seemed quite cheerful. Anyway, look, I thought I ought to ring you, and I can’t make head or tail of it honestly, but I thought you ought to know – ’
‘Know what?’
‘Well, she said something. Just as she was going under. You know. People get a bit funny then, apparently. Sort of drunk.’
‘Barnaby, what are you talking about?’
‘Well, she had one of your handkerchiefs. Actually she had three of them. With her, in her case. I thought it was a bit odd, specially when – ’
‘Barnaby please!’ said Oliver. He was beginning to feel desperate. ‘What are you on about?’
‘All right, all right,’ said Barnaby. ‘I’m only trying to do you a good turn. You and her. And don’t blame me if I’ve got it wrong. But anyway, she said, just as she was going under, like I said, she said she loved you.’
‘Oh,’ said Oliver. There was a long, bright silence. He was looking at the sun falling on a piece of carpet in the hall by his foot. It was a quite an ugly piece of carpet, or so he had always thought, it had been left by the people before, and it was brown with a yellow circular pattern on it. It suddenly looked extremely beautiful to Oliver, a perfect blend of colour and design; he thought how fortunate they were, to have it there in their hall.
‘Did you hear that?’ said Barnaby. He sounded slightly put out.
‘What? Oh yes, yes, I think so. What was it again?’
‘I said, Kirsten said she loved you.’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver, ‘yes, I did hear you. Thank you.’
There was another long silence; this time Oliver’s eyes were on a vase that had been given them by an aunt, bright green it was, studded with pink china rosebuds, he’d always hated it … Melinda had stuck some yellow wallflowers into it; they were the wrong colour and the wrong length. Perfect, thought Oliver, quite quite perfect.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Barnaby, ‘I’ve said the wrong thing again. I’m sorry, Oliver, I just thought – ’
‘That’s OK,’ said Oliver, ‘don’t worry about it. Princess Diana, did you say?’
‘Yeah. Sorry, Oliver. Didn’t mean to – ’
‘It’s OK,’ said Oliver again, ‘bye Barnaby.’
He went out into the garden. Melinda and Tara were comparing brands of deodorant. It seemed extraordinarily interesting. He smiled at them.
‘You OK, Oliver?’ said Melinda.
‘I’m fine,’ said Oliver, ‘I’ve got to go out. You ought to wear that colour more often, Melinda, it suits you.’
‘Olly,’ said Melinda, staring at him, ‘you’ve always said I looked terrible in yellow.’
‘Well, I was wrong,’ said Oliver, ‘you look absolutely beautiful.’
Dr Paget spent a long time listening to Kitty’s chest. Francesca thought, each time he lifted the stethoscope, that he was going to put it away, but then he just moved it to another place and listened again, the intent, blank expression on his face. Kitty didn’t seem very interested; she didn’t seem very interested in anything. A few days ago, yesterday even, she would have been squirming about, trying to get hold of the stethoscope, gazing round her; today she sat listless, wheezing a bit, coughing occasionally, rubbing irritably at her runny eyes. Every so often she looked at her mother and half smiled, then seemed to change her mind and grizzled instead. She was very miserable.
‘She’s clearly not herself,’ said Dr Paget finally, folding the stethoscope, ‘and she’s very wheezy. You have been giving her the antibiotic regularly, haven’t you?’
‘Yes of course I have,’ said Francesca, fear and irritation working at her in equal proportions. ‘Isn’t it working then, isn’t she better?’
‘She’s no better yet,’ he said, ‘and I had hoped she would have been by now. A bit anyway. But on the other hand, she isn’t any worse. Which may sound a bit negative, but isn’t really. At her age, they go down very quickly. And up again, of course. She’s staying the same, holding her own. I think I’ll pop back this evening. Now some Calpol for the temperature might not be bad idea, and that’ll help if she’s feeling a bit sore and achy as well. Which she probably is. There you are,’ he said to Kitty, chucking her gently under her small chin, ‘have you quite well again soon. I’ll be back at about six, Mrs Channing. Try not to worry.’
Francesca managed to smile at him. Try not to worry! Try not to breathe.
She looked up at her mother, who was hovering, there was no other word for it, in the
background, clearly at a complete loss as to what to do.
‘Mum!’ said Jack, running in, flushed and beaming, ‘Curdle Philbeach says he’ll take me to the beach, he’s here now, can I go?’
‘What? Oh, yes of course you can. How kind of him.’
‘No, not really, I’ve told him I’ll let him work on the tunnel with me. Do you think he’s called Philbeach because he goes to the beach a lot?’
‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Francesca. ‘Mummy, why don’t you go with them? You can flirt with Colonel Philbeach and deal with Jack if he’s naughty.’
‘I think Colonel Philbeach is more than able to deal with Jack,’ said Rachel briskly, ‘and whatever you may think, Francesca, I don’t fancy everything in trousers.’
‘But he’s wearing shorts,’ said Jack, going into fits of mirth at his own wit, ‘so you can. Then you can snog him.’
‘Jack, be quiet at once!’ said Rachel.
‘Barnaby snogs all the girls he fancies,’ said Jack with dignity, ‘he told me so, so there.’
Kirsten was surfacing, slowly and painfully, into confusion. Her stomach hurt, not badly, just ached, dully, miserably, like a period. Maybe she’d got her period at last, maybe she wasn’t pregnant after all. She felt sick though, very sick, so maybe she was. The light was too bright; she turned her head fretfully away from it, towards the door. Someone was sitting there, looking at her anxiously. It looked like Barnaby. It was Barnaby. What was he doing in her bedroom?
‘Barney?’
‘Hi, Kirsten. You OK?’
Reality hit her. ‘Awful,’ she said and promptly threw up all over the floor. ‘Sorry,’ she wailed, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Kathy came in, smiling good-naturedly. ‘You all right, pet?’
‘Yes, I think so. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. All part of the fun. For me, anyway. You just lie back and enjoy it, and let me do all the work. You OK, Brother Barney? You don’t look so good yourself.’
Barnaby had gone green; he rushed out of the room
‘Men!’ said Kathy. ‘Hopeless! The other one’s no better, said he had to get some air. Want a sip of water, pet?’
‘What other one?’ said Kirsten, but before Kathy had opened her mouth, she had sunk down into sleep again.
When she woke next the room was much less brilliant; she looked groggily at her watch. It said half-past four. God! She’d been asleep for hours. Poor old Barney, waiting all this time. Only now she wanted him, he didn’t seem to be there. She raised her head cautiously; she felt much better. She reached for her water, took a sip; her hand was feeble, she couldn’t hold it properly, and it toppled over on the sheet.
‘Shit,’ said Kirsten. She groped for her handkerchief, the one she had known, known was there when she had gone down to theatre, tucked into her sleeve. It was gone.
Oliver’s handkerchief, gone. Like Oliver, like the baby. She had lost them all, and she couldn’t bear it. Tears sprung to her eyes; she blinked them away furiously. More came, a great flood.
‘Oh God,’ she said, aloud, and began to wipe her eyes, her nose, on the sheet. She heard the door open, couldn’t face the wretchedly cheerful Kathy again, kept her face buried in the sheet, sobbed louder …
‘Here,’ said a voice. A gentle, careful, anxious voice, a voice she had not thought to hear again, and looking up she saw its owner, looking at her very sweetly, very concerned, but smiling at her. ‘Here, do you want to borrow a handkerchief?’
Chapter Thirty-two
Gray was very drunk when Teresa Booth phoned. He had been drinking since Briony had left, at lunchtime, and as far as he could make out, there were now two empty wine bottles and an empty whisky bottle sitting by the rubbish bin in the kitchen. He couldn’t quite believe he had drunk the contents of them all: maybe they’d all been half empty. Even so it was quite a lot.
Briony liked whisky: rather surprisingly, it was the only alcohol she actually liked. He’d tried to make her like wine, but she really didn’t; well, she said she could take it or leave it, and nice water was better. They’d actually had a couple of rows about her not liking wine: stupid, pointless, rows. Well, he supposed most rows were stupid and pointless, and actually about something quite different. They didn’t have many: or hadn’t, they were both too easy-going, too level to bother. But when they did they were quite spectacular. Making up was the best, of course: that was really good. Briony always wanted sex when they had quarrelled; she said the adrenalin made her randy. It wasn’t the only time she wanted it (although in the last few months, before she had moved out, they had had rather less than Gray might have wished), but when they had been fighting, when her passions had been running high, she tended to be more imaginative, less passive, she often managed – even after two years – to surprise him with her demands and her responses to his.
He thought of her now, wretchedly; not just of having sex with her, but living with her, being happy with her, having fun with her, sharing things, enjoying things with her, and now, thanks to his cocking things up so totally, so appallingly, it was quite over, she would never come back to him now, there was no hope at all, she saw him as the selfish, arrogant, totally insensitive, philandering bloke he really was. He was so appalled by this mental list that he got to his feet, and found a piece of paper and a pen, and actually wrote it down; it seemed important to see it in black and white, fix it in his mind, to have it permanently there, a sort of mental hair shirt, so that in the extremely unlikely event of his ever finding anyone else, he could keep reminding himself of them, the shortcomings, and try very hard to prevent the unfortunate someone else from discovering them.
He had finished the list and replenished his glass when the phone rang. It was Teresa Booth.
‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘there you are. Thanks a lot for keeping in touch, communicating and all that.’
‘Oh Terri, I’m sorry. Been a bit – a bit – faught. I mean fraught.’
‘Graydon, you’re drunk.’
‘Yes,’ he said simply, ‘I am.’
‘You all right?’
‘No Teresa, I’m not all right. I’m – ’ he looked down at the list in his hand, ‘I’m selfish, arrogant, insensitive and a pil – philanderer. And unprofessional with it. And unemployed,’ he added.
‘You’re what? Graydon, what do you mean you’re unemployed, what happened to the story?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I tore it up.’
‘You what!’
‘I tore it up. And then I resigned. Terri, don’t you be cross with me, I couldn’t stand it. Please.’
There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘You on your own?’
‘Yes, I am. But – ’
‘I think I’ll come and see you,’ she said. ‘I can be there in forty-five minutes, this time of night, and I certainly can’t wait till tomorrow to find out what’s going on. So I’m not going to read all about Bard Channing and his misdeeds in the papers, then?’
‘Not under my byline, no,’ said Graydon.
‘Pity. Great pity. I’m on my way,’ she said slightly grimly, ‘and don’t you dare pass out before I get there.’
She arrived, as she had said, in forty-five minutes; he had however passed out, or at least fallen asleep; he could not think who or where he was, who might be ringing at the bell; stumbled to it, forcing himself to move around over the agony of his head, the heaving of his stomach, and lay down again, gazing up at her helplessly like a sick puppy.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are in a bad way. Where’s the kitchen? I’ll make you a cocktail. I have the ingredients with me.’
‘Terri,’ said Gray, very quietly, ‘I do not want a cocktail.’
‘You’ll want this one,’ she said, and disappeared. He lay, with his eyes closed, feeling the room first heave and then spin around him, heard her moving around the kitchen, wondered if he could make the lavatory and knew he couldn’t, and then felt her sit down beside him.
‘Drink this,’ she s
aid severely. ‘Duggie’s patent.’
It was an evil-looking brew: afterwards she told him it was raw egg, soluble Vitamin C, soluble aspirin, Worcester sauce and a smidgen of vodka. He thought for one ghastly moment he was going to spew, then miraculously his stomach settled, eased. He even managed to smile.
‘Now then,’ she said, ‘you’d better tell me what all this is about.’
Dr Paget looked up at Francesca and smiled: a gentle, careful smile. He had been bending over Kitty, listening to her small chest; she was coughing more now, and her temperature had risen to 101.
‘She’s no better, is she?’ said Francesca. There was a tight band increasing round her own chest, and another round her head; she could never remember being so frightened. She looked back in amazement at the woman of yesterday, even earlier that day, the woman who was so distraught that her lover had betrayed her, so distressed at her husband’s failures, who had decreed that her marriage should end, and wondered that such trifling matters could possibly concern her.
‘Well – no.’ He clearly had difficulty in saying the word. ‘No, she’s no better, I’m afraid.’
‘Well – is she worse?’
Another long silence. Then, ‘Perhaps a little. A little worse.’
‘Well, what should we do? Who should see her, where should we go?’
‘Well – ’ and this time the hesitation was even longer – ‘well, tonight, nowhere. She should stay here, in the warmth, continue with her medication, and hopefully she should turn the corner.’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
‘If she doesn’t, we can decide in the morning.’ He smiled again, a careful, sympathetic smile. ‘There is no need for you to go rushing off anywhere tonight.’
‘There’s no-one we should get to see her? No-one who could come here, no specialist?’
‘Well, no, I see no point in that. No point at all. You see, all her notes, her tracings, everything, are in London. It would mean getting them down, almost impossible tonight, and so anyone we talked to would be working in the dark, and would therefore be compelled to send her off to the hospital, probably at Plymouth, to get more done.’
The Dilemma Page 79