CHAPTER TEN
Staring out of the taxi window, Mark watched the people congregating outside the bars and restaurants. He decided that, it being Saturday, once he got home he could take Sophie out for a nice long lunch, with champagne, even. Arthur could sleep in his rock-a-tot. Hopefully.
His head still banged agonisingly - it had taken hours to recover even to the extent of being able to ask the motel receptionist to call a cab. Nonetheless, he smiled as he pictured his arrival home in a few minutes.
‘Bleedin’ maniac!’ exclaimed the driver of his taxi as they rounded the corner into Verona Road, narrowly missing another exiting cab. Mark had the vague impression of two women and a baby in the back, but his brain was coursing too happily with plans to take much notice. The big launches were successfully over. Everything had gone well, although exactly how well would not be revealed until the bestseller lists came out. Hopefully both Red Hearse and Be So There would make the top ten; if so, Lance would have to promote him to Sales Director proper and do some serious investment in the team.
Disgorged from the taxi, Mark shot down the path to the front door, impatient as never before to see his wife and son. He opened the door. ‘Soph!’ he yelled into the echoing interior of the house. All was silent, however.
Mark frowned. Odd. He had not known of any plans to go out this morning. Although, he reminded himself guiltily, he hadn’t exactly kept abreast of Sophie’s diary in recent days. Probably she had gone to buy some milk or something.
He walked into the kitchen. It looked untidy, quite normal, but he felt uneasy none the less.
It was now he noticed, on the kitchen table, a face-down white envelope. With suddenly shaking hands, he picked it up. It was addressed to him, in Sophie’s writing. Of course, he told himself as he opened it, it could be anything. A note telling him she had to take Arthur to the doctor, say. Yet, as he scrabbled for the note inside, Mark’s heart thudded like a panicking rabbit beating the ground with its hind legs.
Dear Mark,
I’ve had enough and I’ve gone home with Mum and Arthur. You not coming home last night was the last straw; that and the call from Persephone. I now realise you’ve been having an affair. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a chance to think, but don’t worry, I’ll be reasonable about access to Arthur. Sophie
He could not believe what he was reading. But he read it again. And again. An affair ? Had she heard something about the sales conference then? Damn it. He knew he should have told her. Well he would, now. It was all a ridiculous misunderstanding, but equally it obviously needed sorting out.
Sophie’s father sounded surprised to hear from him. ‘I didn’t know Sophie was coming here,’ he said. ‘Shirley went down to London yesterday to see her doctor. I thought the idea was that she called round to see you while she was there.’
Having established that Sophie would ring him on his mobile - recharged, unlike himself, in the motel overnight - when she arrived at the Dower House, Mark bowed to the urge to leave the empty house. Not to mention the urge for alcohol. Some hair of the dog might steady his nerves. He decided to go and sit in the bar-café, round the corner. There was nothing serious to worry about, obviously. Once he got to speak to Sophie he could smooth it out in minutes. None the less, he felt concerned.
Sophie had been upstairs in Verona Road packing for Arthur when the telephone in the hall rang. Shirley had picked it up, steeling herself.
‘Sophie?’ It was a man’s voice on a bad mobile line. Mark, Shirley thought, her frame stiffening in outrage.
‘Oh, it’s you. I was rather wondering when you’d ring up,’ she snapped.
‘Er . . .’
‘Where were you last night? Why did you not come home?’
‘What?’
‘You’ve never been worthy of my daughter,’ Shirley stormed. ‘This proves everything I always suspected. You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t leave you over this.’
‘Leave? ’ The voice on the other end sounded electrified.
‘Yes, leave.’
‘Is that Mrs Pringle? This is Simon here. Simon Sharp.’
‘Simon! ’ In the hallway, Shirley reeled. Blood thundered into her face.
Simon could hardly believe his luck, which had not been good of late. There had been another Wintergreen incident only yesterday. Isaiah had appeared without warning at his desk and barked that Mrs Isaiah Wintergreen and Isaiah himself would be honoured if Simon would attend a dinner for Mrs Wintergreen’s birthday.
‘I’d be delighted to,’ Simon had stammered, relieved and delighted at this unexpected evidence he was in favour. He wondered what Mrs Isaiah Wintergreen’s official age was. Thanks to the skill of her surgeon, it seemed to decrease every time he saw her. Her face was about twenty-two at the moment and going down. He calculated they would be celebrating her twenty-first.
Isaiah, whose face was going in the opposite direction and not half so attractively, now thrust it close to Simon. ‘Bring your fianceé,’ he snarled in a tone which made it clear this was not a suggestion. Simon had the uncomfortable feeling he was being flushed out and that the consequences of appearing solo would be catastrophic. It was with this prospect in mind that he had called Sophie.
It was, he imagined, a long shot. They had probably blissfully made up by now and the birthday row long forgotten. But lack of hope sprang eternal in Simon’s cheerless breast and he was clinging to the slight chance that between the parents of his blameless baby godson the fissures of weeks ago had widened into chasms into which he could opportunistically slip.
Miraculously, this was what seemed to have happened. The unfamiliar sensation of pure joy soared within Simon, followed by one of determination to fully exploit this opportunity that had so unexpectedly arisen. He may have missed the chance last time, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to now.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asked Shirley, summoning his most caring voice.
Shirley sighed. ‘Hardly.’ She glanced furtively upstairs. Simon was Arthur’s godfather, Shirley reasoned. He therefore had some stake in the situation. Her interpretation of the last twenty-four hours of Sophie’s life, seasoned with a few salty twists of her own, was soon flowing down the line into what she found to be Simon’s enormously sympathetic and interested ear.
‘It’s just so dreadful,’ Shirley confided by way of conclusion. ‘I just don’t know what to do. Mark’s behaved appallingly - frankly, he’s always been ghastly.’
‘Poor you,’ said Simon. ‘It must be awful, standing by and watching your daughter suffer at the hands of her unsuitable husband.’ His heart, not an organ he was usually aware of, thudded with excitement.
‘It’s all such a mess, Simon,’ Shirley lamented. ‘If only . . .’ She stopped.
‘If only what?’ Simon pressed, hoping he could guess.
All discretion deserted Shirley. ‘If only she’d married you instead of Mark. There. I’ve said it. I know I shouldn’t have, but . . .’ she stopped herself and clapped a horrified hand to her mouth.
‘There, there, Mrs Pringle. There’s nothing wrong in saying that,’ Simon soothed. ‘I feel exactly the same.’
‘You do?’
‘Mrs Pringle, I’ve never stopped loving her.’ His voice dripped with sincerity coloured with the faintest suggestion of tragedy.
‘You haven’t?’
‘No. But of course there’s no point me thinking about it any more,’ Simon sighed dramatically. ‘She’s married, and that’s that. There’s no hope for me.’
‘It’s such a shame,’ Shirley lamented.
In order for this idea to gather force, Simon allowed a brief silence to pass. ‘But need it be, Mrs Pringle?’ he then suggested. ‘I mean, isn’t there a way out of this? An obvious answer?’
‘It would be wonderful if there were,’ Shirley agreed longingly.
Simon frowned. The stupid woman was not responding to his promptings. He obviously needed to be a bit less subtle.
‘Has the possibility,’ he murmured, ‘of Sophie divorcing occurred to anyone?’
Shirley, on her end of the phone, started. While the possibility had occurred to her countless times in theory, the practical reality was an entirely different matter. ‘Well, I’m not sure . . .’ she blustered. ‘It’s a bit drastic . . .’
‘Well, of course it is,’ Simon purred. ‘But if it meant freeing her up for -’ he paused to give due emphasis, ‘a newer, better relationship? Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing?’
Shirley hesitated. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ she admitted eventually.
‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Simon, trying not to sound testy.
Shirley sighed. ‘But what if there isn’t another relationship? What if the right man doesn’t come along?’ While she itched to be rid of the social liability that was Mark, a daughter who was a divorced single mother wouldn’t exactly raise her stock with Venetia Bothamley-Tartt. ‘And there’s Arthur to think about as well, of course. Divorce would be an awful upheaval for him. It affects children terribly, doesn’t it?’
Did it? Simon neither knew nor cared. ‘Look,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What could be better than a powerful and influential man who adores Sophie and wants only the best for her and actually knows Arthur as well? Actually has a role in his life?’
‘Yes, that really would be perfect,’ Shirley agreed.
Simon paused, waiting for the penny to drop.
‘But,’ Shirley said sadly, ‘of course there isn’t anyone like that around. Real life doesn’t work like that.’
Simon was not given to displays of temper - they rarely had a commercial benefit. But just this minute he wanted to scream. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, fighting to lower his voice to persuasive softness, ‘sometimes, Mrs Pringle, real life does work like that.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes. There may, for example, be someone right in front of you for whom Sophie is the perfect wife. Who could make her a perfect husband too,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Someone who is successful and wealthy, with houses in London and the country.’
‘I wish there were,’ Shirley breathed.
‘Who knows Arthur as well. Who would be delighted to take him into his home. Homes, rather. And treat him as his own son.’
‘Oh, that would be marvellous. If only such a person existed.’
Simon fought doggedly on. ‘There is someone,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘who knows Sophie well. Who has loved her for twenty years. Who has never married, hardly even had any other relationships, in fact, because no woman he has ever met since could possibly compare to her.’
Shirley gasped sharply. ‘Oh Simon! You don’t mean . . .’
‘Me, yes,’ Simon said firmly, before the infernal woman could suggest someone completely different. ‘Believe me, Mrs Pringle, I’d make her a husband in a million. Millions, even, ha ha. I am, as you may know, extremely rich.’
‘So I understand,’ Shirley said faintly.
‘The merger would,’ Simon now pointed out, ‘be in both our best interests.’
‘Merger?’
‘I said marriage.’ Simon corrected himself firmly. ‘Must be this bad line. You must agree this is the perfect solution. You, Mrs Pringle, get rid of a very unsuitable son-in-law. And I get the most beautiful, clever and perfect of wives. Not to mention the most wonderful of mothers-in-law.’
‘Oh, Simon,’ Shirley sighed, hopelessly flattered and utterly amnesiac concerning their encounters of the past.
‘So we’re agreed it’s a good idea?’ Simon pressed, anxious to close the deal.
Shirley felt rather as if she were wobbling on the edge of a diving board. And rather, too, as if she had been prodded there, pushed along by Simon’s rather frightening determination and persuasiveness. But there seemed no reason not to jump in, especially as, according to his mother, the pool in Simon’s Hertfordshire mansion was heated. My son-in-law the financier. My daughter’s manor in Hertfordshire. The envious, socially trumped face of Venetia Bothamley-Tartt swam before her.
‘What do you say?’ Simon prompted, just masking his irritation.
‘Well, it doesn’t really matter what I say,’ Shirley pointed out eventually. ‘It’s what Sophie thinks that counts. She might not be as keen on the idea of divorce as we are. Actually, I’m not sure she’s even considering it.’
Simon had been anticipating this. He had a ready answer. ‘But she’s confused. Upset. She doesn’t know her own mind, let alone what’s good for her. She needs those who love her, who are concerned with her welfare, to decide for her.’
‘I suppose so,’ Shirley admitted.
‘And you, of course, are making decisions for her already - making her leave London, for a start,’ Simon pointed out swiftly.
‘Well, she can hardly stay here, the dreadful state she’s in.’
‘Exactly! And she can hardly stay in her dreadful marriage the state that’s in. And just as you’re helping her out of London, you can help her out of being stuck with Mark.’
‘Me?’ Shirley gasped.
‘Yes, you,’ Simon said firmly. ‘You owe it to her to make the right decision for her now. Only you can make it happen, and only by helping me. Are we agreed on that?’
‘Er . . .’ Shirley said, bewildered and feeling rather trapped. And yet wasn’t there sense in what he was proposing? Why, in that case, did something urge her not to commit immediately? ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she murmured, starting with guilty shock as Sophie and Arthur appeared at the top of the stairs.
At his end, Simon screwed up his face and free fist in fury. Think? The woman obviously lacked two brain cells to rub together. As she had just abundantly demonstrated by failing to recognise a good thing when she saw it. Christ, talk about leading a horse to water. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow then,’ he said in strangled tones.
It was not until later, in bed, after the whirl of coming home with her daughter and grandson, appraising James of the dramas, preparing bedrooms and feeding people that Shirley once again had the opportunity of reflecting on Simon Sharp’s amazing proposal.
Lying against her smooth linen pillows, her husband James snoring beside her, Shirley put down her Jackie Collins and stared at the shadowy ceiling. Could she really join forces with Simon Sharp, champion his cause as Sophie’s suitor and compel her daughter to divorce her husband? It did not seem a terribly ethical way of going about things. She glanced at her own husband. This was not something she could discuss with James. He would not countenance her involvement in such a scheme for a second.
And perhaps he would be right. But on the plus side, Shirley thought, there were all the advantages to Sophie that Simon had spelt out. Not to mention some to herself quite besides those of being mother-in-law to a multi-millionaire.
The devil, as is well known, makes work for idle hands and Shirley’s hands, at the moment, were idler than most. To put it bluntly, Shirley was bored. Very bored.
Shirley was a woman whose considerable energies needed an outlet and since, some five years ago, she and Sophie’s father had retired and moved from their old village to the grander one of Chewton Stoke, there had been outlets aplenty. The first and most obvious had been herself. Retirement, Shirley had decided, would be for her an opportunity to fully indulge her lifelong interest in grooming. Tanning, gym, weekly hair and nail appointments and, of course, frequent visits to Dr Carmichael were admittedly absorbing at first.
After a while, though, Shirley began to realise that her wrinkles were better filled than her diary was and began to look beyond her waxings for distraction.
She decided on gardening. Everyone who was anyone in Chewton Stoke gardened, as well as, regrettably, many who weren’t anyone at all. Moreover, it was an area whose image, previously muddy and staid, had become newly upmarket and glamorous. For those reasons, despite being a far-from-committed plants-woman, Shirley duly applied herself to her acre. She chose the modernist route because this allowed lots of gravel and slabs; nice, clean and orderly compared to plants with their insect-infested leaves, which always needed spraying, staking or other tedious attentions. Yet gardening and Shirley did not, as it were, grow together. She worked conscientiously but wincingly; hating the feel of the soil under her manicured nails and in particular hating insects. What made her finally fall out of the limited love she had felt for the whole undertaking was the spider that dropped into her bra and bit her in the armpit.
As a result, she turned from improving her own house and garden to improving the village in general. The problem here was that Chewton Stoke was almost as well-preserved as Shirley herself. It was a smart collection of Coach, Dower and Manor Houses all restored to within an inch of their lives and encircling an unassuming medieval church like overbearing guests at a cocktail party crowding a diffident host. The villagers were proud of the fact Chewton Stoke had been mentioned in the Domesday Book and possibly even prouder of the enormous sums demanded when any houses in it came up for sale.
Nonetheless, Shirley threw herself enthusiastically into the task of gilding this particular lily. Hers were the freshest ideas in the Anti-Velux Windows Collective, hers the most thought-provoking interventions at the Gibbet Preservation Trust; she rallied the Tasteful Exterior Paintwork Society, the parish council, Stamp Out Dog Poo! and the Wind-Chime Action Group to new heights of achievement - or objection. She actually formed a Vulgar Housename Eradication League. And she hoped, as a by-product of all this application, to penetrate the village’s highest social echelons. In this she was doomed to disappointment. Although she had enjoyed their hospitality at gatherings of Villagers Against Leylandii Hedges, the Bothamley-Tartts had not yet welcomed her into their inner circle.
The village’s first family had lived in Chewton Stoke since, as Sir Vaizey Bothamley-Tartt liked to put it, the village was ‘a couple of huts and a hanging tree.’ Sir Vaizey and his wife, Venetia, owned the Manor House, which the Dower House adjoined. They had coats of arms on their teacups and a son who banked in Hong Kong. And, it seemed, no interest at all in Shirley.
James Pringle had had considerably more success than his wife in hitting on a hobby. This absorbed him to the exclusion of all else, including Shirley. But this was not the reason his new pastime annoyed her. It was, so far as she was concerned, as common as bird watching and trainspotting or following football, and possibly worse than all three.
James’s new passionate interest was genealogy. He had become fascinated with the whole process of tracing his ancestors, an undertaking that made Shirley shudder as it advertised the fact that he had no idea who his ancestors actually were. It seemed to Shirley to emphasise the distance between herself and the Bothamley-Tartts, whose lineage from Sir Roger de Tartt, close friend of William the Conqueror, was clearly advertised on framed vellum on their drawing-room wall.
James, incredibly, did not seem to care. His hours were spent either poring over microfilm registers in the local library or at home on the internet consulting genealogy sites. Night after night Shirley would glance through the glass door of the small cubbyhole office next to the kitchen to see him at the computer, his face suffused with the light of ancestral revelation. He would thump his desk if some especially satisfying link had been made. As he had got further into the subject, these had become more frequent.
‘I’ve found a direct ancestor,’ he excitedly announced the night before Shirley had gone to London.
Shirley raised her eyes ironically to the ceiling. ‘Who is it? Elizabeth the First?’
‘Better than that!’ James’s eyes glowed behind his glasses. ‘A pigkeeper in Huddersfield.’
‘Pigkeeper? ’ Shirley repeated in horror. ‘Huddersfield? ’
It was worse even than she had imagined. The thought of the Bothamley-Tartts getting wind of the pigs subsequently kept her awake at night.
But now something else altogether was disturbing her sleep. Shirley shifted on her linen pillows, excitement churning in her shrivelled chest. The more she thought about it, the better Simon’s idea seemed. What drawbacks could there possibly be?
Shirley, as members of her various committees knew, and often to their cost, could be a very persuasive person. Now she turned all her powers of persuasion on herself. Helping, she thought, yes, helping Sophie towards this way out of her marital problems would settle her daughter and grandson’s financial future and have the useful, though naturally merely incidental, side-effect of boosting Shirley’s own social standing in the village. My son-in-law the multi-millionaire. My daughter’s mansion in Hertfordshire . . .
The Bothamley-Tartts’ Hong Kong banker son could, after all, hardly compete with a City superstar like Simon - wasn’t there some derogatory saying about financial people in the former colony, anyway? FILTH, that was it - Failed In London, Try Hong Kong. Ha ha, thought Shirley. Yah booh sucks.
But there was more. Simon’s idea also represented a marvellous new project to get her teeth into. An important one at last. One she could really throw everything into. Allying her daughter with a wealthy banker. It would be a rewarding hobby, in every sense. She closed her eyes and smiled. Yes, when Simon Sharp rang tomorrow, she would have good news for him.
Caffé Toscana, Mark saw, was full of the usual Saturday lunchtime families. Fashionable mothers in faded jeans. Handsome fathers free from the City and half concealed by the Saturday Telegraph. The air resounded to maternal cries of, ‘Milo! Leave Anya’s portable DVD alone’, and ‘Violet, darling, your crostini have arrived.’ Mark sighed. The metal outside tables blazing in the sunshine were making his headache worse. He gestured in vain for a waitress - the only one available was placating four three-year-olds all loudly wanting each other’s food - and stared at his mobile, willing it to ring and have Sophie on the end of it.
One particular couple caught his eye, a smiling blonde with a gentle face and a tall, dark, simian man. They were showing a very fair boy holding a bag of toy spiders how to dip croissants in cappuccino. They seemed quieter and less showy than the other families. Watching them, Mark’s heart twisted with longing for Arthur and Sophie.
The child’s bag of spiders, he now saw, had slid to the floor. Absorbed in the cappuccino game, neither parent seemed to have noticed. Mark got out of his chair and went to pick it up.
‘Thank you,’ said the blonde, turning on him a delighted smile.
Mark shrugged. ‘No problem. I didn’t want him to lose them. I’ve got a son that age and it’s exactly the kind of thing he loves.’
The blonde nodded. ‘What’s your son called?’
‘Arthur.’ Mark was unprepared for the excitement this provoked.
‘Not Arthur who goes to Little Explorers?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Then I know your wife!’ said the blonde. ‘Sophie, isn’t it? She came to Teddy’s birthday party. You were away, working, I think.’ Her brows had knit slightly, Mark noticed. She was still smiling, but in a concerned sort of way. He nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Mark, isn’t it? I’m Helen, by the way. Er, Sophie not with you?’ A definite note of strain was now underpinning her friendliness. She was really staring at him, Mark realised, as if she knew something, as if she was trying to make up her mind about something.
‘Sophie’s visiting her mother in Hampshire,’ he said in as relaxed a manner as he could muster.
At that moment, his pocket trembled. The mobile.
‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, drawing it out and seeing a country number. He gave a huge grin of relief. Sophie. At last. Now he could explain everything and get a grip on the situation.
He rushed outside the café. ‘Darling,’ he said urgently into the mobile.
‘A bit too late for that, don’t you think?’ Shirley said stiffly.
‘Oh, hello, Shirley.’ Mark felt instinctively that he should act as if everything was normal. ‘Could I speak to Sophie, please?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Not possible?’ He could not help his voice shaking slightly. ‘Why not?’
‘She doesn’t want to talk to you.’
‘Could I speak to my wife, please?’
The other end sniffed. ‘Your wife? That’s a little up in the air at the moment.’
A javelin of ice thudded into his heart. ‘Just what the hell are you talking about?’
‘I may as well tell you that Sophie is considering divorce.’ Shirley had been uncertain about delivering this whammy immediately. Especially as Sophie had not even been consulted. But Simon had been insistent that, to have the advantage, they must take the initiative. Never let Mark and Sophie talk, and attack, attack, he had urged her a mere few minutes before she had made this call. Simon had insisted she call Mark immediately to fire the first volley. The faster and more conclusively the enemy was weakened, the sooner they would get what they wanted. And to get what they wanted Shirley must be firm. Ruthless, even. It was for Sophie’s good, in the end.
Mark gasped. ‘Divorce?’ It wasn’t just his voice shaking now. His hands were shaking too. His bowels felt dangerously loose and his forehead and back, clammy. ‘Please let me speak to Sophie,’ he begged.
‘Sophie does not want to speak to you. And when she does, it will probably be through her lawyers.’
He had never heard Shirley sound so steely.
‘But what about Arthur?’ Mark gasped. ‘He’s my son too.’
‘He’ll be staying here with us.’
Panic swirled behind Mark’s eyes. He felt a tightness in his chest. ‘But I want to see him,’ he burst out. ‘I have a right to see him.’
He was dimly aware that the nearest lunchers were silent and rigid, obviously listening.
‘You have no rights to anything at the moment.’
The phone went dead. The call was over. Mark shoved it back in his pocket, went back inside and groped for a chair. He sat down heavily and blinked into the cruelly bright light. He felt as if a breaker’s ball had smashed into his head.
A sharp pain seared his nose. Tears pushed. Sophie really had left him. But it was impossible. He loved her. He depended on her absolutely. Life without her and Arthur - Mark quailed before the absolute horror and emptiness of such a vision.