Chapter Two
It always amused Francesca when she heard women debating when and where their children had been conceived: the vagueness, the could-have-beens and might-not-have-beens. She had known precisely when Jack had been conceived and when she lay, released finally and mercifully from pain, holding the small Kitty Channing, she could look back nine months almost to the hour and say when had been her beginning.
They had been, she and Bard, in the house in Greece, just for a few days; he had been away on endless business trips – another of the things she had not envisaged when she had agreed to marry him, the loneliness of the long-distance wife – and they had been quarrelling a lot when he had been around. He had told her he wanted her all to himself again so that he could remember how much and why he loved her. It was the afternoon of their last day; they had been lying on the beach in the late afternoon, she half asleep on her stomach, sated with warmth, with sun, with new happiness, he reading, and he had reached out for her, she had felt his hand, his demanding, skilful hand, on her back, moving, smoothing down her, had turned, met his eyes, smiled at him, and without a word, stood up and walked into the house, into the cool, up to their room.
‘Oh God,’ he had said, as he came in, looked at her lying there, waiting for him, and moved across, lay beside her, turned her face to look into his.
‘I love you,’ he had said, ‘so much, so very very much,’ and she had leant forward and kissed him, slowly, carefully at first, then as his hands began to move on her again, harder; had felt the yearning, the longing, the hunger for him deep within herself, and as he met her hunger with his own, entered her, moved slowly towards her centre, she had felt the longing and the hunger at once increase and ease, had felt the lovely, flowing, unfolding of herself towards him, greeting him, had felt herself, with him, within a great arc of pleasure, bright, brilliant pleasure, and as she moved to him, with him, fiercer, harder now, she reached out and pushed herself higher, sharper, and the arc broke, shattered into dazzling fragments, fragments that she felt in every cell, every vessel, every particle of her, leaping, probing at her, and for a very long time afterwards, she lay afraid to move, feeling the pleasure so slowly, so sweetly, ebbing from her.
And felt, knew indeed, what had happened to her.
The pregnancy was not easy, though; she was faint, nauseous as she had never been with Jack, she had migraines, for the first time in her life, her back hurt, her legs ached, she bled a great deal, had to spend many weeks in bed, was sleepless, fretful, terrified of another miscarriage, with none of the joyful serenity she had looked forward to. Labour was short, but savage; she stayed at the house too long, remembering the endless tedium of Jack’s birth (while forgetting the pain, which had in any case been very skilfully controlled), and then arrived too late for an epidural, was carried from the ambulance straight into the delivery room, was pushing the baby out, feeling she would break, tear into shreds, frightened by the pain, the harshness of it, unblunted by any drugs, for she hated the gas and air, it made her dizzy, sick, turned it away; heard herself groan, again and again, call out, try to be brave, push again, heard someone scream, a long, loud call of agony, and before she could realise it was herself, beg for relief, Kitty was there, slithering out, tiny, red faced, her little Grecian spring baby, born in London at Christmas time.
Kitty was a difficult baby, and Jack, a demanding, hugely naughty four-year-old, was difficult about her; for the first time Francesca was grateful for Nanny. Kitty fed reluctantly and did not take much at a time; she was small and gained weight very slowly. She slept in periods of what seemed more like minutes rather than hours, and she was restless and miserable even when she had just been fed. There was nothing wrong, both the paediatrician and the GP assured Francesca, she had passed all her tests, she was absolutely fine; she was just a difficult baby, it happened sometimes. Francesca took none of this reassuring information in, and fretted over her until even Rachel lost patience.
‘You’re just being ridiculous, darling, and you’re doing her no good at all, never mind everybody else. She’s a difficult baby, lots of them are. Do try to relax and enjoy her a bit at least.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Francesca, ‘she’s not your baby, you’ve never had a difficult baby, a baby that worries you, you don’t know how I feel.’
She looked at her mother over Kitty’s head and frowned at her, and was astonished to see Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. She had obviously been harsher than she meant.
‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to be cross, I made Jack cry this morning as well.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Rachel, brushing the tears slightly impatiently away. ‘Sorry, so silly to over-react like that. I’m a bit tired myself I expect. What does Bard say about it? He’s had enough children to be able to compare her.’
‘Bard says if Nanny and Dr Hemmings and the paediatrician all say she’s all right, she’s all right. He said Tory was quite a bad baby and look at her now. And then he told me he was going away for a week. Bloody man.’
‘Where to this time?’ said Rachel.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Francesca vaguely. ‘Sweden, I think.’
‘Sweden! Doesn’t sound like Bard.’
‘No, I know. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. I find it very difficult to distinguish his trips one from another.’
‘You should go with him more,’ said Rachel briskly.
‘Oh Mummy, don’t start that please. I don’t want to, and he doesn’t want me too. All right?’
‘Yes all right, darling. I’m sorry. Now then, are you going to have this little creature christened soon?’
‘Yes, I am. End of March, I thought. She should have settled down a bit by then and the weather’ll be nicer. I’m going to ask Tory to be godmother, she’s been so sweet lately, I thought she might be pleased.’
‘Good idea,’ said Rachel.
She decided to hold the christening at Stylings.
‘More suitable somehow to a christening, the country, I think, don’t you, Bard?’ said Francesca. ‘And it’s not as if it’s a long way for everyone, only just over an hour from London. And the garden will be coming at least a bit alive. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, if it’s what you want,’ said Bard. He sounded very distracted; he looked tired. Francesca debated asking him if something was wrong, if he was worried about something, and then rejected the idea. He wouldn’t tell her anyway.
‘I’d like to ask Pete Barbour to be Kitty’s godfather,’ he said a few days later. ‘All right?’
Peter Barbour was the financial director of Channings; stiff, pompous with a slightly distant smile, a tendency to over-dress (Rachel had once described Pete as wearing an eight-piece suit), and a complete inability to make any kind of light conversation.
‘No, not really,’ said Francesca. ‘Why Pete, for heaven’s sake? He’s not even a proper friend.’
‘He is to me,’ said Bard shortly, ‘and I would like it. And so would he.’
‘But – ’
‘Francesca, please. It’s not a lot to ask. I want him to be Kitty’s godfather. And ideally I’d like Vivienne Barbour to be a godmother.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Francesca. She was prepared to fight very hard on this one. ‘Not Vivienne. Not with that ghastly arch manner of hers, and her refined little ways – I’m sorry, Bard, but no. Pete if we must, but – ’
‘Well, who were you thinking of?’
‘Tory.’
‘Tory?’ He was clearly pleasantly surprised. ‘Oh, well, yes, that would be nice.’
‘I thought so. She’s been so sweet lately, and she’s very fond of Kitty. And I just don’t think anyone needs more than two godparents, one of each sex, any more than they need three parents. So – yes, we’ll have Pete, if you really insist, but no, we won’t have Vivienne.’
Bard scowled at her, but didn’t say any more, and she knew that she had won.
Nanny was very disapproving of her decision to have the christening at Stylings. ‘None of the other children were baptised in the country, Mrs Channing, I don’t see why – ’
‘Well, a change is nice, Nanny, I think,’ said Francesca briskly, ‘and the drawing room at Stylings is beautiful in the afternoon sun. And we can have a huge fire and – ’
‘It will be very difficult to get the children down there,’ said Nanny, as if Stylings were set in some remote equatorial region rather than at a point just off the A24. ‘It will need a great deal of planning.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ said Francesca, ‘just,’ and went to discuss catering with Sandie.
Sandie was also rather unwilling to accept Stylings as a venue; it meant a lot more complication, she said, and she raised similar objections to Nanny about getting the food organised at a distance.
‘Sandie, we’re going to Sussex, not Outer Mongolia,’ said Francesca briskly. ‘There is the occasional shop down there, I believe. Now I’d like you to come down to help, if you don’t mind, Mrs Dawkins isn’t up to that sort of party, and – ’
‘Well, I suppose it can be arranged. As long as I can have another day off in lieu,’ said Sandie, her rather hard blue eyes meeting Francesca’s. Don’t try cutting into my free time, that look said, I don’t like you enough to make any concessions to you.
‘Yes, Sandie, of course you can. And Horton will be coming of course, to see to the drink. He’s very happy about it,’ she added firmly.
Later when she walked into the nursery she found Sandie in there talking to Nanny: they both looked at her awkwardly, suddenly silent, and Sandie hurried out of the room. Discussing the christening, no doubt, and her inconvenient plans for it, she thought, and wished she didn’t mind, could brush it aside or confront it. At least Horton had been helpful and positive. She sometimes didn’t think she’d know what she’d do without Horton. He pervaded every area of the family; he was not only a driver, but he helped with the gardening in Sussex, waited at table at London dinner parties, and had even been known to baby-sit in a crisis. He was in his late fifties, small and extremely thin, and oddly good looking; he never laughed, seldom smiled, but had a wonderful sense of fun, a seemingly bottomless fund of bedtime stories for the children, and a nature of extraordinary sweetness. Jess frequently remarked that he was too good for this world, whereupon Bard would reply that if Horton left it he would follow him as fast as he possibly could. Horton had applied for the job of chauffeur twenty years earlier when Bard was just beginning to make enough money to pay for some props, as he put it; had worked rather trustingly for shares in Channing Holdings when things took a dive in the mid-’seventies and was now reportedly rather rich, but he steadfastly refused to consider retiring or even doing less work.
Tory was, as Francesca had hoped, very pleased to be invited to be godmother.
‘I’d love it,’ she said. ‘I love Kitty, she’s so sweet, thank you, Francesca.’
‘That’s all right. I’m so pleased. I’m afraid the godfather’s a bit out of your age range, but never mind.’
‘Pity Barnaby’s away,’ said Tory thoughtfully. ‘He’d have been ideal.’
‘Er – yes,’ said Francesca, flinching slightly from the thought of the unreliable, feckless Barnaby, so badly behaved, even while so infinitely agreeable, entrusted with the spiritual wellbeing of her innocent baby. He was currently roaming the world, rucksacked, his in-between-university-courses trip. (Or rather until some other place of further education could be persuaded to take him on, the Universities of both East Anglia and Plymouth having told him regretfully that they didn’t feel a great deal was to be gained from their further association.)
She was missing Barnaby; he might be lazy, unreliable and manipulative, but he was charming, and genuinely sweet natured. She sometimes wondered how Bard’s genes had managed to produce him at all. He was also very sexy, of course, and very good looking; Rachel had more than once told Francesca that given a straight choice between Bard and Barnaby, she would not have known which way to turn. Francesca, while insisting she did not see him quite in that light (having been over the past five years rather too intimately involved in keeping the details of his hugely active love life, various other overindulgences, some of them illegal, and his disastrous scholastic record, from his father), still admitted that when Barnaby was around, life was undoubtedly more interesting and a lot more fun. But he wasn’t around and certainly wouldn’t be on 27 March, the day of the christening, and perhaps it was all to the good; he would only have drunk far too much, or started chatting up their friends’ wives, or encouraged little Jack in some terrible naughtiness. Jack adored Barnaby; he said he wanted to be him when he grew up.
‘Tory,’ she said now, ‘could you ask Kirsten for me? She might be more likely to come if you did. Your father would be so pleased.’
‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Tory, flushing slightly. They both knew that Kirsten would be too busy, would be unable to make the long journey from London, even in the new Golf GTi her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday, but she had to be asked. And she just might say yes.
Kirsten didn’t say yes.
Francesca also sent an invitation to Liam and Naomi; a stilted, third-person refusal came back, in Liam’s rather flamboyant handwriting. Just to impress on us that it’s him who doesn’t want to come, rather than Naomi, thought Francesca, throwing it in the bin before Bard could see it and become angry or alternatively upset. She was never sure how mutual the dislike between Bard and Liam was; Bard would never discuss it.
‘So I ask you all to raise your glasses to my new daughter. And of course her beautiful mother. Kitty. Francesca and Kitty.’
Bard’s voice was rich, heavy with emotion; his eyes, the brilliant dark eyes, fixed on her and Kitty were thoughtful, tender. Francesca smiled back at him, and thought that in spite of everything, if you could see and feel happiness it would be this moment in this room, a bright, warm, smiling thing, set down in the long, light drawing room, with the quirky spring sunshine dappling the walls, great vases and bowls of flowers everywhere, all yellow and white, lilies and daffodils and narcissi and freesias, and the roomful of friends, smiling with such truly genuine pleasure and affection at the three of them, herself and Bard and the tiny Kitty, her small face relaxed most determinedly in sleep, lying peacefully (for once) in her mother’s arms, dressed in the myriad layers of ivory satin and lace that had adorned Francesca and her mother and her mother’s mother and so on back for almost a hundred and fifty years of christenings.
There were shadows over the brightness of course; Kirsten’s absence, Liam’s absence; but Tory had behaved so beautifully all day, been charming to everyone, and now was sitting cuddling Jack on her knee, careless of the effect his already filthy sailor suit was having on her extremely pale pink silk dress.
She was so lovely, Tory, Francesca thought, looking at her, smiling, with her father’s dark eyes and her mother’s fair hair – and there was another shadow; they had heard only that morning that Pattie was once again in the clinic, after a bad lapse into her alcoholism. Bard, as always on hearing this news, had flown into a violent rage, said why couldn’t Pattie get a grip on herself, it was outrageous, hard on him, impossible for the children, and had gone out to the stables and saddled up his horse and gone for a long ride. He came back hot, exhausted but calmer. What upset him, in truth, Francesca knew, was that a goodly proportion of Pattie’s problems had been brought upon her by himself and his behaviour and he knew it; she sometimes wondered if she might not in time become an alcoholic too.
She caught her mother’s eye on the other side of the room, where she stood working womanfully at flirting with Peter Barbour. Her mother saw her and winked almost imperceptibly at her. Jess, almost colourful today with a white shirt under her black suit and a red feather in her black hat, raised her tankard of water to her and smiled.
‘Right then,’ said Bard, as the glasses were lowered again, and the room smiled expectantly. ‘Cake, I think now … ah Horton, yes, put it there.’
The cake was cut, was passed round; people moved back into cocktail party mode. Francesca headed for her mother, to relieve her of Pete Barbour, but Bard had got there first.
‘Rachel, have some cake. And some more champagne. You look absolutely gorgeous. As always.’
‘Oh Bard, for heaven’s sake. Don’t waste good flattery on me. You know I don’t need it. Francesca my darling, the baby’s just puked down that heavenly robe. Shall I go and change her, or at least find Nanny?’
‘No, Mummy, it’s all right. I’ll do it. You stay here and charm people. And keep Jack from doing anything too awful and upsetting his father, if you can. He’s on a short fuse, even if he is full of fatherly pride.’
‘And husbandly. You’re a clever girl. Give me a kiss.’
Francesca obediently offered her face, breathing in the cloud of Chanel No.5 that always so determinedly surrounded her mother, smiling into the drift of osprey fathers from her absurdly excessive pink hat. It was so like Rachel to say that, to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, to tell her she was clever. Not lucky, as most people would, and frequently did, just clever. Anyone could be lucky. But actually, she supposed, moving through the crowd of guests, smiling, excusing herself with the now wailing Kitty, she was lucky. By any standards. And happy? Yes, of course she was. ‘All right, Kitty,’ she said, planting a kiss on the indignantly scarlet little face, ‘we’re going to find some food straight away.’
As she passed Bard’s study, she heard the phone ringing insistently. That was funny; he must have forgotten to put the answering machine on. Or maybe someone – no prizes for guessing who – had taken it off. Tory had said repeatedly that she was expecting a very important and highly confidential call. She had made it sound as if it would be from a member of the Royal Family or the Cabinet at the very least. A new boyfriend, no doubt. Or maybe it was Barnaby; he might be calling from some beach or other … It was part of his highly dangerous charm that he managed to remember special occasions and to mark them with phone calls, letters, flowers for Francesca, for his grandmother, for Rachel even; Jess, who disapproved of him totally, was nonetheless always won over by his unfailing remembrance of her birthday, even from the middle of the Himalayas or the heart of the rainforest.
Francesca went in, juggling with Kitty and her frills, frowning slightly as she tucked the receiver under her chin. She looked round as she did so, and saw Jack in the doorway, a piece of cake in each hand, blowing her a kiss, and her heart contracted with love.
‘Hallo?’ she said. ‘Hallo. Four-nine-one.’ There was a long silence: it sounded a bit like an intercontinental connection. ‘Barnaby?’ she said. ‘Barnaby, is that you?’
It wasn’t Barnaby, but it was a voice she recognised; recognised with a pang of distaste, a carefully elocuted voice, slightly loud: ‘Oh, is that Francesca? Francesca, this is Teresa Booth here. I wonder if I could speak to your husband?’
Teresa Booth, thought Francesca: of all people, at all times. Damn, why did she have to call now? Teresa Booth who was newly married to Douglas Booth, Bard’s partner, founding partner of Channings, Teresa Booth whom Bard loathed, who put him in a foul mood within minutes, Teresa Booth whom Bard had absolutely refused to ask to the christening.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘he’s awfully busy at the moment. Can I get him to call you back? We’ve – well, there are a few people here.’
‘No, I’d really like to speak to him now,’ said Teresa Booth. Her voice was polite, but very firm; it carried an unmistakable, slightly odd determination.
‘Well,’ said Francesca, equally determined, ‘I really can’t get him just yet. I’m so sorry. But I will get him to call you as soon as possible. Or can I take a message?’
‘No, dear, no message. And I would like to speak to him before – well, let’s see, before seven. Duggie and I are going out then.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Francesca, feeling irritation rise up, gently but unmistakably, deep within her. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Please do, dear. He’ll know what it’s about. I suppose it’s the christening party going on, is it? I hope it’s been a success.’
‘Yes – yes it has. Thank you. Not really a party, of course, just a family gathering. Well, goodbye, Teresa.’
‘Goodbye. I’ll expect to hear from Bard shortly.’
Awful woman, thought Francesca; and then thought anxiously she should have insisted on inviting them, gone against Bard’s wishes, Douglas had been with Bard for so long, and of course if he’d still been married to dear Suzanne, she would have done. Suzanne, Douglas’s beloved wife of twenty years, had died suddenly of cancer, and he had married Teresa shockingly swiftly, within six months. ‘He’s lonely,’ Bard had said, in an endeavour to explain it to himself as much as anyone else and failing; they had all loved Suzanne, gentle, sweet Suzanne, and she too had been infinitely kind and welcoming to Francesca. And Teresa was so totally the opposite, harsh and brash and making it plain she disliked Bard as much as he did her. And so they had agreed not to invite either of them today. Since it was very much family. Well, almost. Family and godparents. And very old friends. That did just about make it all right. Just.
All the same, it was unfortunate Teresa should have phoned today, this afternoon. Francesca put the phone down, and something very faint, like a tendril of cloud in a clear sky, drifted across her happiness, the brightness of the day. She went on up the stairs slowly, holding Kitty to her, wondering what it was, what thought or memory, that was troubling her. And then she realised and smiled at the absurdity of it: it was the bad fairy, the wicked uninvited fairy, intruding on the guests at the christening of the Sleeping Beauty, causing trouble, making threats…
Francesca slid off her red jacket, unbuttoned her cream silk shirt while Kitty roared; they had got off very lightly in the church, only the merest whimper, the non-stop feeding of the morning had paid off. She was still an exceptionally demanding little baby: miserable, she could fairly be called, only it did not seem an adjective appropriate to something so precious, so much beloved. And in spite of the endless feeding, she was still gaining weight so very slowly. Jack had demanded his food as noisily, eaten as greedily, but in between times he had slept and grown. Obviously there was nothing really wrong, but maybe if Kitty didn’t start gaining weight soon, she really would take her to see another paediatrician; she knew they all thought she was simply neurotic – the GP, Nanny, Bard – but nonetheless she wanted the faceless, shadowy fears that haunted her sleep (or such sleep as Kitty allowed her) and even sometimes her days, banished properly, efficiently, knowledgeably. She could handle a difficult baby, as long as difficult was all she was; but she wanted the pronouncement ‘difficult’ to be official. Looking down at her small daughter now, her heart contracting with love, enjoying the sensation of the little mouth working at her breast, she felt her small hands, so cold as always, and pulled up the frills to check her feet, but they were warm for once; for the hundredth, the thousandth time, she told herself Bard was right, she was indeed being neurotic, and set her mind to more practical matters such as how many people might wish to stay on for supper, and who might drive Jess home if she wished to be among them. Jess had a phobia about sleeping anywhere but her own high, hard, horribly uncomfortable bed; it was a souvenir of her work for the Red Cross canteen at St Thomas’s Hospital during the war, and she resisted totally any attempt to acquire anything newer or more comfortable. Well, if no-one else would take her, Horton would, and then he could go to the house in St John’s Wood.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, looked up to see Bard in the doorway. He was looking at her as he always did, very intent, unsmiling, his dark eyes fixed on her in total attention.
‘Are you all right?’ he said, moving over, kissing the top of her head.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Kitty was getting tired of the party. She’s been very good.’
‘It’s a very nice party.’
Francesca smiled at him. ‘I know.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
He bent down lower, kissed her briefly but hard on the mouth. Francesca responded to him, to the kiss, felt it not only on her mouth but echoing through her, sweet, disturbing, strong. After six years of Bard, of the difficulties of him, she was still helplessly moved by him sexually.
Kitty, sensing a distraction from the job in hand, in her mother squirmed, lost the breast, started to wail; Francesca laughed.
‘Now look what you’ve done. Poor baby. Oh, Bard, there was a call for you, I’m afraid. From Teresa Booth. She was very insistent. She said she’d like to speak to you before seven.’
‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘bloody woman.’
‘But you will ring her?’
‘Of course I’m not going to ring her. Well, in my own good time, possibly. Certainly not now.’ And he turned away and walked over to the window, stood with his back to her, looking out.
‘We should have asked them, really, Bard.’
‘No we shouldn’t,’ he said.
‘Well, she’s obviously put out.’
‘I don’t give a fuck if she’s put out,’ he said and he turned round and looked at her, and it wasn’t just irritation on his face, in his dark eyes, it was anger, raw, hardly suppressed. Francesca looked at him thoughtfully.
‘You don’t know what it was about? She said you would.’
‘No I don’t,’ he said, ‘of course I don’t. How should I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Francesca. ‘I don’t know anything about your business affairs. Do I?’
‘What makes you think it’s business?’
‘Well, Bard, I certainly hope it’s business. I don’t want you developing some intimate relationship with Teresa Booth.’ She laughed, was looking down at Kitty as she spoke, but he didn’t laugh and when she looked up, he wasn’t smiling, was glaring at her.
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ he said.
‘Sorry!’ said Francesca. ‘Bad joke.’
‘Yes it was.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again, anxious to defuse his wrath, to placate him, restore his earlier mood; this was no time, no occasion for a row. ‘But I do think you should ring her. She really was very pressing.’
‘Yes all right, Francesca, I’ll ring her. When I have a moment. We do have a houseful of guests. You going to be long?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Good.’ He hauled himself back into good humour with a visible effort. ‘Well, no doubt she’ll call again, if I don’t manage to obey her summons. I’d better get back to the party.’
‘Yes. I’ll be down in a minute.’
Francesca looked after his broad back thoughtfully. It wasn’t possible to know Bard as intimately as she did without having a very shrewd idea when he was lying.
Rachel was greatly enjoying the christening. She enjoyed most of the social occasions Bard Channing involved her in. She enjoyed Bard himself and his presence in her life rather more than she knew she should. She was at sixty-one still highly attractive, and she knew Bard recognised that fact and even at times responded to it: there had been one unfortunate occasion when Francesca had been very pregnant with Jack, and Rachel had been staying with her in Sussex. Bard had come home unexpectedly from a trip abroad, and after Francesca had gone up to bed he had got out the brandy bottle, and they had started talking. Rachel thought, Bard told her, like a man, which clearly he saw as a huge compliment and indeed she took as one; but she realised things were getting a little out of hand when she suddenly felt his hand caressing the nape of her neck, and felt herself light with longing to respond. ‘Time for bed, I think,’ she said briskly, ‘alone,’ and went very quickly up to her room where she lay awake for a very long time, half longing for and half dreading his hand on the doorhandle. In the morning they were both suffering from bad hangovers and remorse, but something had remained from the encounter, an intimacy, a sense that they had become closer than they actually had, and a very warm, joky, sexy friendship. Rachel knew that at times, in her lower moments, Francesca found this at best irritating and at worst depressing.
And Francesca did have lower moments. Rachel, whose philosophy of life was rather more robust than her daughter’s, found them as much irksome as worrying, given what most people would have regarded as Francesca’s outstanding good fortune, but she did her best to help her out of them without becoming too involved. She had a horror of being an interfering mother-in-law. She had actually had a horror of being a mother-in-law altogether, with all that it implied; she watched her youth moving relentlessly away from her with genuine pain, mixed at times with sheer panic, but Bard was as near to an ideal son-in-law as was possible, not least because he was her junior by only a few years and they could both make jokes about the whole thing, and in much the same way, and while becoming a grandmother had been truly appalling in theory, it was surprisingly all right in practice, since people spent their whole time expressing charming astonishment that she could possibly be old enough to be one at all.
And the children were so lovely, both of them, especially little Jack – Rachel had an innate preference for males of any age – and it was certainly a delicious relationship, with its inbuilt facility for her to withdraw when the going began to get a bit too tough, and she and Francesca had certainly become closer as a result of it.
She looked rather nervously round for the Barbours; she really didn’t want to get involved with the terrible Vivienne, Pete was bad enough. But they had moved over to Jess and were talking to her; Rachel saw Victoria standing near her, and decided even she would be an improvement conversationally on the Barbours. She was really very sweet, Victoria, and she had behaved beautifully that day, looking after Jack and chatting prettily to everyone. She was a lot nicer than her sister. Now there was a nasty piece of work. Tough as they came. What possible harm could it have done her, even given her loyalty to her wretched mother, to have come today for a couple of hours to make her father happy? He was so good to her: what she really needed was her bottom smacking. Exceptional to look at though: even Rachel, usually determinedly unimpressed by female beauty, found Kirsten quite dazzling. Where Victoria was simply and charmingly pretty, Kirsten was beautiful. She had somehow in her fine, fair, classically perfect features, her large green eyes, her wealth of rich, ripe gold hair, something of her father’s strength and individuality. Her nose might be straight and perfect, but it was strong, chiselled, her mouth curvily perfect but heavily sensuous too, her jaw fine but remarkable in shape, almost square, her head set proudly on her long, white neck. She was tall, half an inch off six feet, her hips narrow, her legs ultra long, but her bosom fine and full; she had lovely hands and, more unusually, beautiful feet, narrow and long; and she had a most memorable voice, deep and throaty, almost rough in its texture. Rachel had always considered, quite detachedly, that Francesca was beautiful, but beside Kirsten she looked almost ordinary.
The room was thinning out now. Rachel looked at her watch: almost five-fifteen, it would soon be down to family only and the opportunity for a casual, careful word with Bard would be lost, he would be moving away now, his relentless mind leaving the party, moving back onto the only thing that properly engaged it, his company, and all its interminably attendant problems and pressures, and quite unapproachable. She would have to be quick. She moved forward to where he was saying goodbye to Peter Barbour, and tapped him gently on the arm.
‘Bard darling. Could we have the quickest word?’
‘Yes, of course we could,’ he said swiftly, as always courteous and charming with her. ‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Both. Of course,’ said Rachel. ‘But I don’t want to get into details, not now. I have a little proposition, and I’d like your opinion on it.’
‘All right,’ he said after a moment’s silence. ‘Let’s have breakfast one morning next week. That suit you? Ring Marcia in the morning, no use me trying to think of a day now, but I’ll tell her you’re calling and to fix it. That all right for you?’
‘Yes of course. Thank you, Bard. I’d be so grateful.’
That was perfect: ringing Marcia Grainger, Bard’s appallingly efficient secretary, without warning was fatal, she always gave an icy-smooth brush off, conveying the clear impression that anyone lower than the Prime Minister, the governor of the Bank of England or just possibly the heir to the throne, had no real business even dialling Bard’s number, and certainly absolutely no chance of gaining any kind of access to him. But Bard would tell Marcia to expect her call, he never forgot anything like that, and then something could be fixed. Rachel gave Bard the briefest pat on his arm, the lightest kiss on the cheek, and went off in search of a piece of christening cake, thinking how extraordinarily charming and considerate Bard could be when he chose. He was actually, she knew, acutely sensitive, beneath the arrogance; and she wondered not for the first time that afternoon how much it had hurt him that Liam had not been there. Kirsten was just a spoilt, silly child; Liam was thirty-four years old and really should have at least begun to grow up.
‘Liam,’ said Naomi, ‘you’re thirty-four years old. You really should begin to grow up.’
Liam looked up at her from his desk. She was standing in the doorway of his study, holding a tray with two large whiskies on it and a newspaper tucked under her arm, and she had a very determined look on her face.
‘And in what precise way did you think this growing up should be manifested?’ he said coldly.
‘Getting a job,’ she said, setting down the tray on his desk, picking up one of the glasses. ‘Earning some money. Supporting me a bit for a change.’
‘Naomi, do we really have to go over all this again? We agreed that until I established myself you would – ’
‘Yes, well everything’s just changed, Liam. That agreement isn’t very relevant any longer.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve been made redundant.’
‘What?’ said Liam. He picked up the other glass, took a large slug of the whisky, waited for the room to steady. It didn’t. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. I’ve lost my job. As of – well, three months from tomorrow. Well, actually, tomorrow.’
‘But Naomi, nobody loses their job on a Sunday.’
‘I have. Dick just called, it was really good of him, he just got back from New York and said he didn’t want me to have to cope with the shock in the office. Rationalisation, it’s called. The Americans. You know? That old chestnut. Six of us are out. Including Dick actually.’ She smiled at him, slightly awkwardly, looked down at her own glass. He realised it was shaking, and managed to feel a touch of sympathy mixed with his own panic.
‘Naomi, I’m so sorry,’ he said carefully. ‘How awful for you. But – ’
‘Yes? But what?’
‘Well, I was going to say I’m sure you can get something else.’
‘Well, Liam, I’m not so sure, I’m afraid. It’s bloody tough out there. And anyway – ’
‘Anyway what?’
‘Liam, we’re in a mess already. Aren’t we? Even with my salary.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Liam heavily.
‘Of course we are. We have negative equity on this house, the children’s school fees are roaring up, you want Jasper to board next year, the overdraft is looking hideous, the bank are getting extremely edgy, you earned – what, about nine grand last year – ’
‘Naomi, I do know all this. You remind me of it quite often. Could I remind you, as we’re running through this rather familiar script, that when I establish myself – ’
‘Liam, you’ve been establishing yourself for almost ten years. I think it’s time you faced the fact it isn’t going to happen.’
‘Well, thank you for that vote of confidence.’
She ignored him. ‘And anyway, if I’m going to be out of a job, something drastic has to be done. And I think it’s your turn and it’s time you did it.’
‘Oh really? And what would you like me to do? Give up the Bar, go and work in McDonald’s perhaps – ’
‘I think you should go to your father.’
‘No, Naomi,’ said Liam. ‘I will not to go my father.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not. It is absolutely out of the question.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Naomi, ‘but I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Have you seen this piece in the paper today?’
‘No,’ said Liam.
He had, of course; had read it over and over again, tasting the old bitterness almost physically, filled with hatred towards them all.
‘Well, I’ll read it to you. “Kitty Channing, born last December to Francesca, ‘Bard’ Channing’s stunning third wife, will be christened in Sussex today, in the church near Stylings, Channing’s magnificent Queen Anne country retreat. Kitty represents the latest jewel in his already glittering crown, born as she was in a year that saw him move into the top third of the elite Sunday Times Richest People in Britain list. To mark Kitty’s birth, Francesca was given – ” oh I can’t go on, it makes me feel sick. You must get the drift. And meanwhile we have to cancel our summer holiday and I have to go crawling round again with my CV. It’s ridiculous, Liam, and I’ve been sitting up there thinking and there really there is absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t at least lend us some money to tide us over. Now are you going to go and see him, ask him for help, or shall I? That might be better, at least I won’t start hurling insults at him halfway through the conversation.’
She sat down on the sofa opposite his desk, her grey eyes very steely as she looked at him. She was wearing jeans and a denim shirt; her long red hair trailed over her shoulder in a plait. She had no make-up on. She didn’t look like a high-flying, international banker, Liam thought, and then with a lurch of his guts, realised she wasn’t one any longer.
‘Look,’ he said carefully, ‘look, let’s think about this a bit longer.’
‘Liam, we don’t have time to think a bit longer. I’ve been doing sums down there, even before Dick called. Carla has to go, immediately, whatever happens. It’s ridiculous, shelling out nearly two hundred pounds a week for a nanny when even Hattie is at school half the day. But if the bank get wind of this they’ll make us sell the house.’
‘Oh stop this,’ he said wearily. ‘I get so extremely tired of it, of having my nose rubbed in how totally dependent we are on your income, your dazzling success. I’ve been doing my best, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, your best isn’t good enough, and my success seems to have dimmed a bit. Unfortunately for all of us. I’m sorry, Liam, and I know how much you hate him, or say you do, but I think you owe it to me and the children to go and ask him for at least a loan. And I warn you, if you don’t do it, I certainly shall. I’m going to read to Hattie now. I’ll see you later.’
Liam watched her go out of the door and then picked up the paper, looked at the picture of Francesca holding Jack at the last christening, looked at his father standing there with her, his arm round her, champagne glass in his hand, smiling at the camera, looked at the caption to the picture: ‘Channing and the jewels in his crown’, threw it suddenly, viciously across the room.
‘I hate you,’ he said, quite quietly, staring at where it had fallen. ‘Christ, how I hate you.’