Bad Behaviour

by Liz Byrski

  Julia was confident that Simon exceeded everything her parents could hope for in a son-in-law, even if he was sometimes a little too confident. A sliver of humility would certainly go down well, but humility was not one of Simon’s qualities. Sometimes, Julia admitted to herself that even she found him a little over the top, but in the couple of months they had been together, the balance sheet had shaped up strongly in his favour. She liked him a lot, and occasionally considered that she might really love him; it was all so different from the way things had been with Tom. Mostly, she found it easiest not to think about that too much. She was still amazed to find herself the recipient of two proposals of marriage within a few months; it had done wonders for her self-esteem.

  The customs officer ticked their suitcases with chalk, and they made their way out of the terminal to where a car was waiting to take them straight to the Belgravia Branston, in which the family had its own luxurious apartment. And that was the other thing, Julia thought, as she climbed into the back of the car, wealth made everything so much easier.

  ‘And you’re sure this is the right thing for you, darling?’ Anita asked the following day. She turned, glass in hand, away from the lounge window from which they had been watching Simon and Ralph talking earnestly as they walked side-by-side across the garden. ‘You’re sure he’s the right one?’

  ‘Mummy, I am old enough to make up my own mind.’

  Anita patted her daughter’s arm. ‘Of course you are, and if you’re happy . . .’

  ‘I told you. I’m ecstatic. I know it’s all very sudden. We thought . . . well, Simon thought it would be a lovely surprise.’

  Anita glanced out of the window again. ‘It’s certainly a surprise; you hardly mentioned him in your letters and now you show up engaged.’ She turned back quickly, looking Julia straight in the eye. ‘I have to ask you this, Julia . . . you’re not . . . you’re not pregnant, are you?’

  For a moment Julia stared at her mother in disbelief. ‘Oh, I see! No, of course I’m not pregnant, definitely not.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’

  ‘You do like him, don’t you?’

  ‘He seems very nice.’

  Julia leaned back against the windowsill. ‘He was dying to meet you and he really wanted us to surprise you.’

  Leaning back on the window seat, Anita stuck her feet out in front of her and circled her constantly swollen ankles. ‘Mmmm. I’m sure he did, but a little forewarning might have been nice. After all, we weren’t expecting you for another month and suddenly there you are at the door engaged to a complete stranger. Anyway, what’s done is done, I suppose. And you say you want a winter wedding?’

  ‘New Year would be lovely – it might snow.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather wait for spring – think of the flowers and we could have the reception here in the garden.’

  ‘The Branstons have offered to have it in their Belgravia Hotel. We thought we’d have the service in town.’

  Anita drew in her chin, creating several other chins. ‘London? But we’ve always gone to St John’s. It’s beautiful for a wedding. After all, the bride’s family is supposed to do the wedding. It’s rather high-handed their thinking they can take over like this. Your father and I will have to meet them and sort this out.’

  ‘It’s not that they want to take over,’ Julia protested. ‘They offered and I thought you’d be glad not to have to do all the organising, and surely Daddy won’t mind not having to pay for it?’

  ‘It’s a matter of principle,’ Anita said, her face flushed, eyes wider than ever. ‘It would have been better to speak to us first, Julia. These Branston people can’t just go around making all the decisions.’ She replenished her drink.

  Julia smiled to herself; she knew she was a very different person from the girl who had left home nine months earlier. As she watched her mother, she realised that Anita had seen that change and was struggling now to re-establish her authority. But, miraculously, that authority had passed to Simon, by virtue of his obvious desirability as a son-in-law. He had, as he predicted, taken control of the situation. All she now had to do was to walk the tightrope between her parents and Simon and his family until the wedding. By New Year, it would all be over. She would be Mrs Simon Branston and in charge of her own life.

  ‘Look, Mummy,’ Julia said. ‘Simon’s wonderful and his parents are really nice and very rich. And I’m going to have a wonderful life in Paris because Simon’s going to run the hotel there. The Branstons are just trying to help. They’re used to managing things and Simon’s mother is longing to meet you. Please, Mummy, for me. Please?’

  Anita patted her hand. ‘I would have liked to be the first to know, but there we are; it’s done now. I’m sure we’ll work it all out amicably.’ She stood up and straightened her skirt. ‘Mind you, I feel as though everything’s turning upside down these days; what with this and Richard, of course.’

  Julia took a deep breath and changed tack. ‘How is Richard?’

  Since, at the age of seventeen, he had shinned down the pipes outside his bedroom window and left a note saying he was joining the CND march to Aldermarston, Richard had been in political and every other sort of conflict with his parents. At times, Julia knew, she had capitalised on that conflict. During the periods of fighting over Richard’s insistence on going to the London School of Economics when he could have got in to Cambridge and arguments over demonstrations and about Ralph’s views on the opening of the universities to what he called ’oiks from the north’, Julia had acted out the role of ideal daughter. She had done well at school, displayed perfect manners to visitors and generally courted approval. That had all changed, however, when she left school and drifted aimlessly from one day to the next, herself becoming the focus of parental disappointment. Now she realised she was really looking forward to seeing Richard again.

  ‘He’s been in America,’ Anita said, rolling her eyes, ‘making some television program about all those negroes causing trouble.’

  ‘Is he still with that Australian girl?’

  ‘I assume so. He brought her here once, back in the spring.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Australian; I ask you! It says it all, really. Strange girl, dreadful accent and clueless about the most basic things. She lives in a house in Kilburn with a black man. Daddy and I are hoping this time away might bring Richard to his senses; people often come back feeling restless, wanting something different.’

  ‘They do,’ Julia agreed, thinking of the difference it had made to her, and musing on how much easier it had been for Richard to leave home, get a life, break free. But now she had Simon, things would be different.

  Late on the afternoon of the day Richard was due home, Zoë called the Television Centre from her office, to find out what time the flight got in.

  ‘They’re staying a bit longer,’ a production assistant told her. ‘Back next Wednesday evening.’

  ‘But he said tonight.’

  ‘Something came up,’ the man said. ‘We got a call yesterday.’

  Zoë put down the phone, feeling crushed. The least he could have done, she thought, was to let her know. She felt abandoned, as though she had been pouring all her love into a black hole. There had been times when she was with Richard that she felt he didn’t actually see her. Now, he seemed to have forgotten her completely. Miserably, she pulled on her coat and walked through the fine rain to the Underground. The past two weeks had seemed interminable.

  ‘You’d have been no good in the war,’ Harry said when she arrived home. ‘It’s only another week. How d’you think those dames managed when their men were gone for months or years – not knowing if they were dead or alive, or in a prison camp?’

  ‘I’d have been useless,’ she said, sniffing miserably. ‘But this isn’t the war. If I hadn’t rung his office, I wouldn’t have known what was happening.’

  ‘I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,’ Harry said, and he raced upstairs to his room, return
ed with a new bottle of Baileys and poured two large measures. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what’s on the telly.’

  The lounge was draughty even in summer and Zoë curled up on the sofa, pulling a rug around her.

  ‘You gotta get a life of your own, kiddo, ’ Harry said. ‘No good depending on Richard for everything.’

  ‘But I love Richard, and he loves me,’ Zoë said. ‘I need him.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Loving’s good, needing’s not. You’ve gotta learn the difference or the need kills the love.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Being needed is a killer, it’s suffocating. You need your own life; friends, hobbies, work, all that.’

  ‘But that would mean spending less time together,’ she said. ‘We should be together more, not less; that’s how it’s supposed to be.’

  Harry shrugged, ‘Is that what Richard wants?’

  ‘Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he?’ She held up her glass, ‘More, please.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows and topped up her glass.

  Later, when she tried to go back over what happened, Zoë realised that she had drunk an awful lot of Baileys very quickly and on an empty stomach. It was so deliciously smooth and creamy, the sweetness so comforting.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked at one point when she held out her glass. ‘It’s quite strong.’

  But she nodded, and later surreptitiously poured herself another extra large one when he went to the kitchen to look for something to eat.

  ‘You should eat something too,’ Harry said, coming back into the room with a tin of digestive biscuits and an elderly-looking packet of Kraft cheese slices.

  Zoë sat up straight and took the biscuits from him.

  ‘Cheer up, babe,’ he said, crouching down beside her. ‘The time’ll soon pass,’ and he put his hand up to her cheek.

  And that was when she did it. Impulsively, she put her hand over his and held it, turning her head to kiss the palm of his hand. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Harry leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and went to move away.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck, ‘don’t go.’

  He looked at her again, his eyes searching hers; then, very gently he kissed her, sliding his hands into her hair, drawing her closer. It was so entirely different from kissing Richard – longer, deeper, so much more intense. Zoë let her weight sink against him, and he slipped his arms around her and kissed her again.

  ‘Are you quite sure about this, Zoë?’ he asked a little later in her bedroom, where the light of the street lamps cast patches of soft golden light through the window.

  ‘I’m sure,’ she whispered, pressing her face to his chest, inhaling his unfamiliar smell and tasting the saltiness of his skin. ‘Absolutely sure.’

  Slowly, and with infinite care, Harry removed her clothes, seeming to pay intense attention to every tiny movement, to be marvelling over the discovery of her body. She slid her hands inside his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and unbuttoning his belt. For a moment he moved away, standing up to take off his shoes and trousers, and she waited for him to come back to her, impatient in her desire but relishing every moment, every second, every small detail of what was happening. His body was like fire beside her and she shuddered with pleasure as he slipped one arm under her shoulders and gently drew her leg over the curve of his hip.

  TEN

  London – September 1968

  Richard flew home high on the adrenaline of the trip and burning with an ambition that had previously only simmered. Martin Gilbert had proved a wise and generous mentor.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he’d said, when Richard expressed concern about his own lack of journalistic experience. ‘You’re smart, you’ve got the instinct and the sort of single-minded ambition that it takes. But if you want to get to the top, it’ll fuck up the rest of your life. You’ll have to sacrifice other things but it’s worth it.’

  The following day he had checked Richard’s briefing for interviews with members of the Black Panthers, and then handed them back to him. ‘Off you go, then,’ Martin had said, and laughed when Richard stared at him. ‘Go on, you want to do this job; here’s your chance. Do the interviews yourself. Get going, man – this is what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  It was an extraordinary opportunity, one for which Richard knew he might otherwise have had to wait years.

  The flight into Heathrow was almost two hours late and when he finally got back to the flat, he found a message from Charlie to say that Julia had called and wanted him to phone her at the Branston Hotel in Belgravia, even if it was late.

  ‘Got yourself a job in a posh hotel?’ he asked when he was put through to her.

  ‘Not a job, a fiancé.’

  ‘A fiancé? Congratulations, is it someone I know?’

  ‘No, but you might know his name. It’s Simon Branston.’

  Richard gave a low whistle. ‘Son of . . .’

  ‘Exactly. Aren’t you impressed?’

  ‘I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve met him. But you sound very happy.’

  ‘I am and I wanted to be first to tell you. We’re getting married on New Year’s Day. You have to come and bring your strange Australian girlfriend with the dreadful accent with you.’

  Richard, who had been feeling ambivalent about his relationship with Zoë, now bristled defensively. ‘I see you’ve been talking to Mum.’

  ‘Naturally. Don’t be so prickly, I’m only joking. I want to meet her, and I want you and Simon to meet each other. I thought the four of us could have a drink.’

  Drinking with Julia and Simon Branston didn’t appeal to Richard. He was pleased to hear her so different, so happy, but would have preferred it if she could have been happy at a distance.

  ‘I’ll organise it with Zoë tomorrow,’ he said. ‘So, I suppose the parents are pretty pleased with you landing a rich and influential fish?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Julia said, hesitating, ‘but Mum seems to think it’s some sort of contest to see if she can get her own way over Simon and his parents. Dad’s a bit better, but it’s all a tad thin ice-ish. You don’t know how lucky you are, escaping like you have; it’s so much easier for men.’

  Richard grunted, remembering the many bitter arguments with his parents, not least on his last visit home, with Zoë. ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ he said, tucking the receiver under his chin and flicking through the small pile of mail, ‘it’s not easier, just different.’ He hung up, loosened his tie, walked through to his bedroom, switched on the light and almost jumped out of his skin.

  ‘It’s me,’ Zoë cried, startled from sleep by the bright light. ‘It’s only me. Charlie let me in. It was meant to be a surprise, but you’re so late I must’ve fallen asleep.’ She swung her legs out of bed and ran to him. ‘I missed you so much. It feels as though you’ve been gone for months. Did you miss me? Tell me you did.’

  ‘Of course I missed you,’ Richard lied. He bent to kiss her, breathing in the lemony scent of her hair, sliding his hands down her body, to grasp the swell of her buttocks and press her against him. Zoë stood on one foot, wrapping a leg around one of his. Lust overwhelmed him and he picked her up and, in a single stride, crossed to the bed and dumped her on it. Fumbling with his zip, he kneed her legs apart and grasped her thighs, spreading them wider to thrust himself into her, ignoring the voice in his head that warned him not to be drawn back into the doom-laden cycle of desire and disenchantment from which his temporary absence had freed him. And yet, he went on, lemming-like, aware that he was using her and that she was unknowingly colluding in something destined to crash and burn.

  For days, Zoë had been haunted by the irrational fear that somehow Richard would know she had betrayed him with Harry, and that her only salvation lay in reminding him how great they were together. So, when the following morning, she pushed down the sheet and studied the purple smudges on her inner thighs, she was confident that being there when
he got home had been an excellent move. Sometimes, when Richard was cold and silent, as he had often been before he went away, Zoë felt quite scared of him, and it was worse when he’d had a lot to drink and turned his sarcasm on her. These visible signs of his desire, though, were surely proof of how much he loved her and had missed her. Nothing had changed; they could start again, the two of them together. And it wasn’t as though she’d planned to betray him. But there was something about the way Harry had looked at her, the way he touched her, the way it seemed that his mind as well as his body was totally focused on her, that had eclipsed everything else and left her reeling with desire.

  ‘It was like that for me too, babe,’ Harry had said the next morning as they sat staring guiltily at each other across the kitchen table. ‘And it was real special, Zoë, I mean . . .’

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘for me too, really special. But I feel so bad about Richard, and about Agnes.’

  ‘Agnes,’ he said looking down into his coffee, shaking his head. ‘Man, she’d kill me if she found out.’

  ‘She won’t. Neither of them will ever find out. You’re not going to confess and nor am I.’

  ‘I feel so bad that it’s like they know already.’

  Zoë nodded. ‘But it’s just us feeling guilty that makes it seem that way.’

  ‘You’re special, Zoë,’ Harry said, reaching for her hand across the table. ‘I don’t want to make trouble for you either.’

  ‘A pact then,’ she’d said, gripping his outstretched fingers. ‘No owning up just because we feel guilty. It’s best that way. I know it’s not honest but it is the best way.’

  ‘Right,’ he’d agreed, squeezing her hand. ‘You’re right, we don’t tell anyone, not a soul, not ever.’