The High Flyer

by Susan Howatch

  “God, you mean?”

  “I’ve never found ‘God’ a helpful word. But I have my own views on what St. Paul meant when he talked of the Principalities and Powers.”

  “That sounds like serious fantasy! All I can say is that if you’re going to tell me you believe in UFOs, please hand me a large brandy first!”

  “I think Jung got it right about UFOs,” said Kim astonishingly. “The point is not whether they exist in what we think of as reality, but why people start seeing them. Jung thought they were a psychic reality, indicative of profound anxiety in the collective unconscious.”

  I felt my jaw sag. When I had recovered from my amazement I demanded: “But you’re not really interested in all that guff, are you?”

  “What guff? Jung? Psychic phenomena? Mysteries of consciousness? Spiritual matters? God? Principalities and Powers? St. Paul?”

  “Oh, the whole damn lot! I mean, surely every rational person knows nowadays that there’s no God, religion’s a crutch for losers and truth which can’t be scientifically proved in a laboratory is no truth at all?”

  Kim burst out laughing. “Why, what a cute little version of logical positivism! Where did you find that summary—in a Christmas cracker?”

  I somehow managed to stop my jaw sagging again. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “Sweetheart, logical positivism is an outdated and increasingly discredited philosophy. It reflects the state of mind generated by the Enlightenment, but we’re post-Enlightenment now.”

  I stared at him. I did open my mouth to speak but no words came out because I had no idea what to say. What he was talking about had never featured in any of my law books. I felt like an unbriefed barrister, but the next moment Kim had grasped what had happened and was moving to protect my self-esteem. “Relax!” he said soothingly. “I never read a history of modern thought either until I hit forty—you’re much too young to be bothered with that kind of stuff!”

  I felt exactly as if a dinosaur had patted me on the arm and said: “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about this problem, my dear!” My natural instinct was to punch him on the nose.

  “I don’t give a damn whether you label my views logical positivism, common sense or absolute bullshit,” I snapped. “All I know is that I’m going to continue to put my trust in logic and rationality, and no one is ever going to catch me dabbling in any kind of philosophical or theological nutterguff!”

  “That’s fine, sweetheart, but if you’re going to be an atheist, do yourself a favour and be an intellectually respectable one, okay? You won’t win any brownie points, believe me, by putting a belief in Jesus Christ in the same category as a belief in UFOs . . . Or are you going to abandon your old-fashioned Enlightenment attitudes and claim that an ill-informed belief is as good as a well-informed one in the post-modern supermarket of ideas?”

  I knew at once that all I could now do was concede defeat and change the subject. “No wonder you earn twice as much as I do!” I said goodnaturedly. “You’ve done me up like a kipper! And now if you’re in the mood to contemplate me as a late-night snack, why don’t we . . .”

  To my relief he was more than willing to adjourn to the bedroom.

  XI

  Later I decided I should read a book about modern thought and learn how to make an intellectually respectable case for atheism. It would never do to make a gaffe at a future dinner-party.

  But the trouble was there was never any time for serious reading. There was never any time for non-serious reading. I even had difficulty in finding time to go with Kim to the theatre and the cinema. Certainly there was never any time to sit and think—in fact the very idea of having enough time to waste time seemed bizarre, even shocking. As a high flyer you bartered your time and energy in exchange for wealth and power and everyone admired you, approved of you, thought you were wonderful, because you were living out the gospel of worldly success and the doctrine of sophisticated salvation. It was a tough life but you could never whinge because you knew you’d got to heaven and therefore, logically and rationally, you had to be happy. To whinge would have been an unforgivable sin. Whingeing was for wimps—who were the sinners, the lost and the damned.

  I decided to set aside time on my honeymoon to read a book called Modern Thought in a Nutshell. I had no idea whether such a useful précis existed, but it seemed reasonable to hope that it might. The bookshops around the Law Courts always stocked in-a-nutshell summaries of legal subjects for the law students unable to understand their lecturers, and I felt I could cope with even the dottiest aspect of modern thought so long as it was presented nutshelled, preferably on a snow-white beach in the Seychelles . . .

  But in fact my honeymoon, when it came, involved no intellectual reading at all.

  I was much too exhausted after the divorce.

  XII

  Kim and I soon decided that marriage was a viable option, but we also decided to keep both our affair and our marital plans under wraps for a time. There was a good reason for this extreme discretion: by coincidence we were both in the process of changing jobs. Kim had been asked to become Head of Legal at Graf-Rosen, the big international investment bank, while I was being wooed by the partners of Curtis, Towers who were keen for me to shore up their tax department. Obviously it made sense that we should present ourselves as people who had their private lives in immaculate order, and certainly I had no intention of telling my would-be partners that I had marriage plans; they might have felt faint at the thought of maternity leave, even though my life-plan allowed me, if necessary, to work for up to two years after marriage before becoming pregnant.

  By that time I had decided that I did not mind waiting another year for Kim’s divorce; by the February of 1990 when proceedings could begin I would still be two months short of my thirty-fifth birthday and the year I had earmarked for marriage. I also felt I should welcome the opportunity to get to know Kim as well as possible before tying the knot. The only danger lay in our establishing such a satisfactory relationship that he became too contented with unmarried life, but I reckoned I had the know-how to steer him away from fulfilling this notorious male pipe-dream.

  Kim did reconsider the way he was setting about extricating himself from his marriage, but since a year of his separation had already elapsed, it seemed in the end less trouble not to meddle with the wheels which had been set in motion. There is only one ground for divorce: irretrievable marital breakdown. But in order to demonstrate this breakdown it has to be shown that either adultery or unacceptable behaviour (flexibly defined) or one of three different categories involving separation (including desertion) has taken place. Kim and Sophie had agreed last year that they should claim marital breakdown as manifested by the simplest form of separation (two years spent apart, both parties consenting) but if Kim’s adultery with me were now to be substituted for the separation, the divorce proceedings could be considerably accelerated.

  For a brief moment we were tempted, but we both saw that it was wiser not to play the adultery card. Quite apart from the fact that we were keen to keep our relationship low profile while we were changing jobs, the marriage break-up could so easily be misrepresented. There would have been no drama in court, since uncontested divorces are shunted through so fast that the parties barely have time to hear their names when the list is read out, but word of the adultery could have got around and the truth distorted. People might have thought I had bust up the marriage. Not wanting to be slagged off as hormone-driven or desperate I was keen to avoid this slander, and Kim was equally keen for people not to push the lie that he had junked his wife because he had fancied a much younger woman. People might have thought he was gripped by a midlife crisis and temporarily unreliable.

  “And to be honest,” said Kim, after we had decided to keep going with the two-year separation, “I’m not sure I would have relished going to Sophie to suggest a quickie divorce based on adultery. Divorce is difficult enough for her as she’s a practising Christian in a small, conservativ
e community, but at least the two-year separation route enables her to tell her friends that although the marriage is ending there’s no one else involved.”

  I was not only startled by this comment but disturbed. “Do you mean to say she doesn’t know about me yet?”

  “Why should she? Since we’re both being so discreet—”

  “But she’s bound to hear eventually!”

  “Let’s get the job-change out of the way. Then once we’re free to be more open about our relationship—”

  “Kim, if she hears the truth from someone else, she’s going to be miffed as hell. Why don’t you go down to Oakshott next weekend and break the news?”

  But he said the job-change was creating quite enough stress in his life and Sophie had to be kept on ice until the pressure had eased.

  A week later during a rare night out at the Barbican Theatre, we had the disastrous luck to come face to face with Sophie’s brother, and the next morning Kim reluctantly phoned Sophie to break the news of my existence. But he was too late. The brother’s tongue had already been wagging. Sophie wanted to know if remarriage was being planned and Kim found he could procrastinate no longer.

  When he told her the truth she promptly withdrew her consent to the divorce.

  XIII

  “What the hell’s going on?” I said shattered when I heard what had happened.

  “She’s taking the high moral ground by saying she’d be condoning my adultery if she agreed to a divorce, but I suspect this is really just another case of ‘a woman scorn’d’ venting her fury.”

  “But it makes no sense! Surely she realises you’ve committed adultery before?”

  Kim said drily: “It’s one thing to turn a blind eye while your husband conducts an ultra-discreet extra-marital sex life; that’s all part of being a virtuous long-suffering wife. But it’s quite another to find yourself being publicly discarded and replaced.”

  “But why shouldn’t she be discarded and replaced if she’s refused to sleep with you for—how long did you say it was?”

  “A hundred light-years. Look, sweetheart, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this but I’m sure it’s just a temporary hitch . . .”

  I found no comfort in this assurance. It was true that nowadays no one could delay a divorce indefinitely, but it was also true that Sophie could still make us wait several more years before Kim was able to obtain a divorce without her consent. So horrified was I by this potential derailing of my life-plan that I was beyond speech, and seeing how upset I was Kim redoubled his efforts to reassure me.

  “Carter, she’s going to abandon this tough line just as soon as she realises I’m determined to marry you—she’s going to abandon it just as soon as she realises all her delaying tactics are futile!”

  But I was barely listening. Another horrific thought had struck me. “Christ, supposing she takes you to the financial cleaners?”

  “She wouldn’t,” said Kim automatically.

  “Why not? If she’s got a good lawyer—”

  “You’re forgetting the law’s supposed to avoid punitive settlements. And there’s no reason why the financial situation shouldn’t result in a standard clean-break arrangement.”

  My scepticism deepened. “What exactly is the financial situation?”

  “Sophie has her own money. Because of this I’ve always spent freely, with the result that I’m now long on income but short on capital, and that means the crucial asset for me is that house in Oakshott which I bought with my own money and which is registered in my name. When Sophie and I discussed the divorce last year, she offered to buy me out so that she could stay on, and I think that’s fair enough as she has more money than I have. So since we’re basically in agreement—”

  “You’re dreaming. Surely under the Matrimonial Causes Act the judge will take your future earnings into account when assessing the assets? And Sophie must be entitled in equity to a share of her home— she’s probably even entitled to that under common law!”

  “But in cases where both spouses have money, I’m sure they can cut their own deal for rubber-stamping by the judge at the time of the divorce—”

  “You’re still dreaming. Sophie will now try and screw you over the house.”

  “No, she won’t! She’s got too much dignity!”

  “Oh yeah? Then what’s she doing crashing around in a fury? And incidentally, isn’t this vindictive anger of hers immoral for a Christian? Shouldn’t she just forgive you and turn the other cheek?”

  “Sophie’s a good woman but she’s not Jesus Christ.”

  “Then what’s the betting that she’ll seek revenge and call it justice!”

  But Kim was clearly still reluctant to face the worst. “Sweetheart—”

  “Look,” I said, becoming much milder in the hope of sounding more persuasive, “surely all that counts is that the divorce shouldn’t be delayed for years? And since we’re both going to be earning megabucks, is it really so disastrous if you emerge from the marriage with less than the ideal amount of capital?”

  “But I need every penny that’s rightfully mine in order to give you a first-class home in a first-class neighbourhood! Don’t you know how much it costs nowadays to buy a decent house in Chelsea or Kensington?”

  “But with our joint income we’re bound to be able to swing the deal we want! Listen, darling, don’t get hung up on that Oakshott house or she’ll use it as a weapon against you, and once those lawyers start haggling—”

  “My money went into that place,” said Kim obstinately, “and I want that money back. If Sophie now starts screaming that any percentage of it should be hers, I’ll—”

  “Hey, what kind of freak is this woman?” I exclaimed, trying to lighten the conversation by injecting a shot of humour. “You keep describing her as if she were two different people! First of all she’s meekly agreeing to a divorce and being too dignified to screw you over the house, but the next moment she’s ditched her size-twenty housecoat, togged herself up like a Hollywood tragedy queen and dynamited our plans while breathing fire in all directions! Are you sure you’re not a bigamist with two wives?”

  “Isn’t one enough?” Kim retorted acidly, but he did manage to laugh. Then he said: “The discrepancy’s an illusion. The truth is that Sophie’s what the old-fashioned English still call a ‘lady’—someone well-bred, well-mannered, deeply conservative, highly moral and usually well in control of herself. And this sort of woman, who bottles up her emotions, is much more likely to explode with wrath if she feels she’s been wronged. She was merely bottled up last year but now she’s exploded. Res ipsa loquitur.”

  I sighed in exasperation. “Okay,” I said, “you’ve convinced me she’s just one person, but I still think she’s carrying on as if she’s fruity-loops. However”—I took a deep breath, knowing I had to concentrate on keeping calm—“I can see now you were right to say her tantrum probably won’t last once she realises you’re determined to marry me. I’ll lie low so as not to inflame her further, your lawyers will wave a magic wand to produce the right financial settlement—after all, what the hell are they being paid for?—and Ms. Fruity-Loops will eventually realise that if she wants to keep her halo twinkling she’ll have to abandon the role of avenging harpy. We’ll all live happily ever after in the end, I’m sure of it.”

  But a week later the phone calls began.

  TWO

  One of the main compulsions of our society is addiction to urgency. This addiction dominates the day with a string of urgent matters . . . [It] is common in a society whose main criterion for its own health is economic success, and which encourages people to focus their identities through their jobs.

  DAVID F. FORD

  The Shape of Living

  I

  She phoned me at my flat in the Barbican. I had just returned from an exhausting day at my new job and was feeling thoroughly creased and cross. Two dinosaurs had tried to stamp on me and two whippets had attempted breast-brushing. Whippets are racy young
males with minimal post-qualifying experience who are barely house-trained and who regard a female lawyer as some novel type of inflatable doll.

  “Hullo?” I said, taking the call. I was wondering if Kim was phoning to tell me what an idyllic day he had had with all the dinosaurs grovelling before him and all the minimal p.q.e. whippets tiptoeing past in reverent silence.

  “Miss Graham?” The woman’s voice was a pleasant, educated contralto. I confirmed my identity.

  “Miss Graham, this is Sophie Betz.”

  I hung up. I was still standing there, still too shocked to think clearly, when the phone rang again. I decided the caller was Kim. Bad decision. It was Sophie persisting.

  “Miss Graham, please don’t hang up. I’d very much like to talk to you, and—”

  Slamming down the receiver, I disconnected the phone and mixed myself a double vodka martini.

  II

  When Kim stopped by at my flat later and heard the news he was even more shocked than I was. He was also far more angry. Now at last the playful dolphin vanished and I saw the boardroom shark. “I’ll gut whoever leaked your phone number,” he said, “and if the leak came from Milton’s office I’ll bloody sue him.” His distinguished divorce lawyer was in fact a man whom no one in his right mind would sue, but I recognised that Kim needed to let off steam by resorting to violent language.

  After I had calmed him down we tried to work out how the leak had occurred. I did have a circle of acquaintances who knew my ex-directory number, but none of them had met Kim, let alone Sophie, and I found it hard to imagine them casually passing my number to a stranger. For a moment I toyed with the idea that the leak had come from someone at the office, but this theory too seemed implausible. My secretary Jacqui, who had accompanied me to Curtis, Towers from my last firm, would never have divulged my home phone number to anyone, and I had given it to none of my new colleagues because I had not been long enough at Curtis, Towers to make friends. The number would be in my personnel file, but I could hardly see Sophie hacking her way into a confidential information system—and how would she have known anyway that I worked for Curtis, Towers?