Chapter Seven
So it was official: no longer a fear, no longer a shadowy neurosis, but official, a long – or rather several long – words. Kitty had some long words, she had a ventricular septal defect, which meant she had a hole in that part of her heart that sent the blood circulating round her small body. And so it wasn’t very effective, and the blood wasn’t being circulated very well. And it would possibly – ‘only possibly, I must stress that’ – need surgery to correct it.
Francesca stood there, holding her baby when she came back from the X-ray department, holding the small body that was not getting all the blood it needed when it needed it, that was so often cold, that didn’t gain weight, that clearly endured discomfort and perhaps endured pain, and that would have to endure more, would have to be cut into and probed and clipped and stitched, the tiny white chest mutilated with a great red gash, and she gripped Bard’s hand and looked at Mr Lauder in an agony of fear and said (while thinking how mundane the words were, how foolishly inadequate), ‘What happens now?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, what happens now is that I should refer her to a cardio-thoracic surgeon. Who will decide exactly when and if she should have surgery. I cannot stress enough that this is not a serious case, and neither is it urgent. It may well be that Kitty would be better served if we waited a while, until she is a little older and stronger.’
‘But suppose – ’ said Francesca, and it took all her courage even to ask, and there was agony in her voice as she said it, ‘suppose it gets worse, suppose she – she doesn’t get the chance to be older and stronger.’
‘That will be for the surgeon to decide.’ Mr Lauder smiled his blandest, most reassuring smile. ‘I have to tell you I think it is extremely unlikely that he won’t agree with me. However, of course we don’t want to risk anything, nor waste any time at all. Now if you can just bear with me, I will – ’
And he was off on his medical routine, the one they all went into so swiftly and easily, lifting phones, making notes, raising eyebrows, smiling, nodding, running through the script, the well-rehearsed lines about nothing to worry about and excellent people and superb units and best possible care and earliest possible dates and that he would send her tracings and notes over to Mr Moreton-Smith, a consultant cardiovascular surgeon at St Andrew’s, immediately, and if he thought she should be seen sooner, then that could be arranged too.
‘That’s almost a week,’ said Francesca. ‘Why not before?’
‘Mrs Channing, as I have said, there is really no great urgency with this. She is not a severe case and most surgeons prefer to wait until the child is older. I don’t want to raise your hopes, but in some, many cases even, the hearts repair themselves and surgery is not actually necessary. This is a very tiny hole, your baby is not seriously ill. You told me, I think, that she had gained almost a pound since I first saw her; that is excellent, most encouraging – you must try not to worry, Mrs Channing, Mr Channing. Of course it’s upsetting, but – ’
On and on the voice went, the detached voice, talking sense, talking knowledge, and of course it would, Francesca thought, it had no connection, that voice, with the owner of the heart that had been brought to him, the hurting, inefficient heart, she was just a patient to him, a small patient, not a part of him, that had been nourished and cherished by him, not something so dear, so important that he would feel his own heart hurting beyond endurance. She looked down at the baby, unusually peaceful, uncharacteristically asleep, and she cradled her close, shutting the world out from her, the hard world that had bestowed such injustice, such outrage on her, rested her cheek on the tiny, silky head, and tried to be calm.
‘And what’s the prognosis?’ said Bard suddenly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How much danger is she actually in? What are her chances of a total recovery, with or without surgery? What are the risks of the surgery itself?’
Mr Lauder smiled at him and paused before he spoke, making it clear he had given the questions proper and careful consideration. ‘She is not, so far as it is possible to make such a statement, and in my opinion, in any immediate danger. The chances of a total recovery are obviously dependent on a great many factors, which I would prefer you to discuss with Mr Moreton-Smith. The risks inherent in any surgery are of course there, and it would be wrong of me to dismiss them, and again would be affected by the length of the operation, the degree of anaesthesia required, the child’s general health, but again, Mr Moreton-Smith would be better able to tell you – ’
‘Well, this is all pretty bloody useless, isn’t it?’ said Bard.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘All these ifs and buts and maybes. What I want are some facts, and I want to know how we get them, get something more satisfactory than all this nonsense.’
‘Mr Channing,’ said Mr Lauder, all reasonable calm, indicating most clearly that he understood Bard’s distress, even as he must, as a man of medicine, dismiss it, and speaking as if to a moderately intelligent child, ‘I do assure you this is as definite a diagnosis as you will get at this stage. Medicine is not an exact science, as of course you know, especially in a situation like this one. Your daughter is very young, very tiny; one is inevitably dealing in ifs and buts, as you put it, in uncertainties – ’
‘Well, I’d like to check that out for myself, I’m afraid,’ said Bard, ‘I cannot believe it’s impossible to get a more definite diagnosis, as you put it, than the one we’ve had this morning.’
‘Bard – ’ said Francesca. ‘Bard, I don’t – ’
‘Mr Channing, of course you may get a second opinion. That is your absolute right. But I would be very – ’ He hesitated, then smiled again, the smile yet more gracious, more chillingly confident, ‘ – very surprised if you were told anything more definite. However, if it is your wish, then I suggest you see another paediatrician and perhaps you would then feel you would like to come back to me and discuss your daughter’s case more fully.’
‘Fine,’ said Bard. ‘That’s what we will do. Because – ’
‘Mr Lauder,’ said Francesca, taking a deep breath, not looking at Bard, ‘I’m not quite sure about this. Would it delay matters if we did that? Would it mean you wouldn’t send the tracings to Mr Moreton-Smith immediately – ’
‘No, no, I should still do that, of course. And report back to you. But I would not ask him then to see her, as the matter would be in abeyance while you sought a second opinion – ’
‘Well, we will discuss this between ourselves,’ said Francesca, still not looking at Bard, her voice very clear, ‘and then phone you. If we may.’
‘Of course. And, as I say, this is not a serious case, and I would urge you again to try not to worry too much.’ He stood up, smiling, holding out his hand to Francesca and then to Bard, tickled Kitty gently under her small chin. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, ‘quite beautiful. I’m sure she’ll be fine.’
‘How could you do that?’ said Francesca, as soon as they were outside in the street. ‘How could you be so rude, so arrogant?’
‘He was rude and arrogant,’ said Bard, ‘not to mention incompetent, talking to us as if we were halfwits, not giving us any proper answers – ’
‘Bard, there aren’t any proper answers, as you put it. Well, we’ve had quite a lot already. He can’t say any more yet, he can’t do a prognosis about whether or not surgery will be required, how much danger she might or might not be in. I’m not in the least surprised he talked to you as if you were a halfwit, you were behaving like one.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough to put up with this morning without listening to this.’
‘Oh really?’ said Francesca. Rage swept over her, so strong, so blinding it was almost pleasurable. ‘You’ve had a lot to put up with? Bard, how can you talk like that, while Kitty is ill, really ill and possibly in pain, certainly suffering, we don’t know how much, while I feel like just picking her up and running away with her, while Mr Lauder, having put his considerable expertise at our disposal, has to listen to your insults. I feel sick, Bard, sick to the bottom of my heart, and that performance of yours has certainly contributed to it. I’m going to take Kitty home, and I am not going to seek any second opinions until we’ve seen Mr Moreton-Smith. Then if we’re not happy, we can think again.’
‘Francesca, we will do what I think best.’
‘No, we won’t. Because it isn’t best for Kitty. Not at this stage. We’re only talking a few days. She’s been ill all her little life.’ She held Kitty closer to her suddenly, as if to protect her. ‘And I might say, if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, seen Mr Lauder in the first place, she would have gone on being ill, possibly until it was too late. So don’t start telling me what’s best for her, please. Anyway, I’m going home now. I don’t know what you’re going to do.’
‘Obviously I’m going to the office. I’ve got a lot on.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I’ll call you. Later. When I’ve had time to think about this.’
She shrugged. ‘Fine.’ She turned away from him, unlocked her car door, started buckling Kitty into the complex straps of her little seat.
‘Francesca – ’
‘Yes, Bard?’ She could hear her own voice, ice cold.
‘Francesca, I – I’m only concerned with what’s best for Kitty. That’s all I want.’
‘Is it? Is it really?’
‘Yes, of course it bloody well is.’
‘Good,’ she said coolly and got into the car.
He didn’t phone, not all afternoon; but he arrived home, most extraordinarily, at six, his arms full of flowers, his dark eyes full of remorse.
‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her, ‘and we have to get through this thing somehow. We’ll see this Moreton-Smith man and then we’ll see someone else.’
It was the nearest he was going to get to apologising; knowing what it had cost him, she smiled, took the flowers, kissed him back. ‘Thank you. I love you too. And yes, we will get through it. And we can see Mr Moreton-Smith next Tuesday. Quite soon really.’
‘You’ve fixed it, then?’
She met his eyes steadily. ‘Yes. Yes, I spoke to Mr Lauder this afternoon.’
She thought he might lose his temper then, tell her she had no right to go ahead until he had agreed; but there was a pause and then he said, clearly with great difficulty, ‘Fine. I’ll come with you.’
Of all humiliations, Liam thought this must surely be the worst. To sit in some crummy office, opposite some little nerd in a shiny suit and a flashy tie with slicked-back hair and a framed photograph of some bimbo with streaked blonde hair and huge boobs bursting out of her bikini, and beg. It was even worse than begging from his father. At least he had some sort of respect for his father.
‘Right, Mr Channing,’ said Des Carter (that was the name painted proudly on the small plaque that stood on his desk), ‘let’s just go over this once more. Now you bought Forty-seven Marquis for – what was it – four hundred and twenty thousand in 1988. It’s now worth – what shall we say, on the open market? Three-fifty? Terrible, isn’t it? Really terrible. I said to my wife only last night, thank God we didn’t get into that. We could have done, only too easily, believe me. But her father’s a builder, he saw it coming of course, and we waited to buy. Saw the prices tumbling down. We were lucky. Anyway, you don’t want to hear my story, do you?’
‘Oh – I don’t know,’ said Liam carefully. ‘Be nice to the buggers,’ had been the last advice his solicitor had given him, ‘let them throw the book at you, don’t argue. They’re all little Hitlers, love the sense of power. Just stay humble. You’ll do better that way.’
‘So now you can’t keep up your payments. Dear oh dear. You have my sympathy, Mr Channing, you really do. We see so much of this and really it doesn’t get any easier for us.’
For us neither, thought Liam gritting his teeth.
‘Now your monthly repayments are – let’s see – three thousand seven hundred. Quite a lot, isn’t it? I can see it could represent quite a drain. Now what is the combined family income?’
‘About – about a hundred and fifty thousand.’
‘That doesn’t sound too bad. Still, a big hunk out of it though. What do you do, Mr Channing? Ah yes, barrister I see. Well, you guys make loads of dosh don’t you? Coining it in?’
‘Not all of us, no. Unfortunately. It’s quite tough actually.’
‘Really?’ He looked blankly surprised. ‘And your wife, she’s a banker?’
‘Yes.’
‘So hers is the primary income?’
‘Yes. That is, it was.’ He felt himself beginning to sweat. ‘But she’s been made redundant. Usual story, you know, takeover. The Americans. Of course I’m sure it’s only a temporary hitch. She has a very good track record. But in the meantime – ’
‘Yes, of course. The meantime. Which is what we’re looking at, isn’t it? What about your own income, are you able to increase or even supplement that, Mr Channing? In the meantime?’
Slimy little shit, thought Liam. ‘I’m not – sure. Naturally I’m trying.’
‘Well, good for you, Mr Channing. Lots of people aren’t prepared to try even. So full marks to you.’
A quarter of an hour later, Liam left, with a reprieve of sorts: six months without making any further mortgage repayments (‘Of course you realise these would be added on to the capital sum at the end?’). At least they would continue to have a roof over their heads. A roof probably not worth the best quality slates it was made of, but at least the bed and breakfast didn’t beckon. On the other hand there wasn’t going to be much more breakfast if he didn’t get anything out of the bank. The overdraft still stood at £9,000, and the charges on it were hideous. Naomi’s redundancy money had simply taken the top off it; the manager had told them if it did not at least stop rising, he would simply start returning cheques.
‘This is not a charity, Mr Channing. I can’t go on supporting you indefinitely.’
The problem was, anything at all he did manage to earn simply got lost in the overdraft; Naomi had suggested they open a Post Office Giro account for anything they could salvage, and that had helped a bit; they had sold a few of their beloved pieces of Staffordshire and some silver and put the money in there, but it was almost run through now, and he was terrified of overdrawing on it, with the inevitable checks on his credit rating, and the antagonism of their own manager. Something had to be done; he had to get something out of the buggers.
Naomi had told him he should go straight on to the bank from the building society that morning, but that seemed to Liam the equivalent of washing down bitter pills with gall: he decided to go home, call the bank and speak to the manager, and maybe he would have something positive to tell him, maybe there would be a reply to one of the innumerable letters he had written applying for jobs as in-house barrister. It was a favourite route for those for whom private practice had not proved sufficiently profitable: less glamorous, less prestigious, but more secure. So far he had not had a great deal of luck.
He walked down Marquis Terrace towards their house; once it had seemed to him Arcadia, a beautiful street, the finest example of Islington Georgian, shutters all intact, fireplaces all present, furniture all stylish, every single one filled with successful, moneyed, ambitious people – Type A Terrace it ought to be called, Naomi had once said; he hadn’t known what she’d meant and she had said, ‘Really Liam, surely even you must know about Type A personalities, they’re the pushy, driven lot. The ones who are statistically most prone to heart attacks,’ she added briskly.
A couple of the Terrace nannies were pushing small, trendily clothed children along it in large gleaming pushchairs; they both smiled at him slightly awkwardly, began talking rather too busily (knowing his own nanny had been told to leave, knowing full well why). He looked blankly back at them, not really caring; he had more important things to worry about than the nanny mafia.
Liam pushed open the door, looked at the hall table; the usual pile of bills and envelopes telling him their contents were not circulars, mostly chase-up letters on credit and charge cards, and two officious-looking white envelopes. Replies, thought Liam, feeling sick, and walked into the kitchen, sat down heavily.
‘Dear Mr Channing (they both said, uncompromisingly), Thank you for your letter. Although we were impressed by …’
He didn’t read on; stood up again, plugged in the kettle. The kitchen was a mess, he thought, looking round it distastefully – Naomi certainly had no talent for the domestic life. Crumbs and tea stains all over the white tiled surface, a milk bottle and a margarine tub on the black marble table, and two unfinished cups of tea on the draining board. Surely she could at least tidy up after herself. Where was she anyway, the children were both at school, she should be here, working on job applications. That was the pact. They would both make a job of getting a job.
She had been very good when he had first got back that day, supportive and cool; had cursed and reviled his father for some time, and then said quite cheerfully (pre-empting his own speech, somewhat to his surprise) that actually it would have been terrible to be under any kind of obligation to him, far better make their own way: they had even gone to bed and had some rather amazing sex. Liam had lain (slightly detachedly) as her body tensed and throbbed and eased, and wondered how long her positive mood would last.
A very short time it turned out: as the days had gone by, they were patently failing to make their own way. All Naomi’s contacts had said of course, normally they would be thrilled to have her on board, but with things still being, if not bad not good – well, they would get back to her the minute they had anything for her; and he had spent long miserable days applying for jobs far below his capabilities, as he had ventured outside the legal framework, had applied for (and failed to get) consultancies, jobs in marketing, in sales (sales, for God’s sake!), and their spirits had been sucked inevitably into a downward spiral, and they had become first loudly quarrelsome and then silently hostile.
Everything, thought Liam, staring out at the small walled garden (and even that looked neglected now and there really was no excuse for that, except that when the nanny had looked after the children and Mrs Barker had done the housework there had been more time and energy for trimming and pruning and going off to the Garden Centre for shrubs and tubs and terracottas), everything conspired to remind him how unsatisfactory their life had become. All the things that had once seemed unremarkable – the pile of clean sheets and duvet covers in the airing cupboard, the great heaps of thick fluffy towels, the rows of perfectly ironed shirts in his wardrobe, the immaculately filled fridge, the cosy hour before the children’s bedtime when he and they sat and cuddled on the sofa, they in their clean pyjamas, their hair washed and shining, and he read them stories, the fresh flowers in the hall and the drawing room, the fun of shopping together on Saturday morning, all of them, hurling things into the trolley in Waitrose, anything anyone fancied, going for a walk with one or two other families in the Terrace and then having tea together, which invariably became drinks and then sometimes supper – all those things had assumed huge importance by their absence. Especially to Liam. He craved, he required, domestic order. Without it he felt a kind of outrage, a sense of neglect, of being unattended to. Naomi never ironed anything, certainly not his shirts; the hour before bedtime was now the one where he had to bath and feed the children, and story time had become a lot shorter. Flowers were expensive, shopping a worrying chore (was their payment card going to be accepted, had they overspent?), and the other families best avoided, as hospitality could no longer be returned, drinks no longer offered, and tactful questions had become increasingly difficult to answer cheerfully.
He made his coffee and sat down at the table meaning to go through last Sunday’s papers for jobs; but he could hear a baby crying in the garden next door and he suddenly thought of Francesca and the tiny, sickly Kitty. At least their children were healthy, his and Naomi’s, they had that to be thankful for. Liam was, if nothing else, a devoted father. The removal of the buffer of the nanny between himself and Jasper and Hattie had made them seem at once more exasperating and exhausting and troubling and more precious and important to him. He loved them as he had never loved anyone, with a fierce, possessive passion; he watched them sometimes as they played, or ate or even fought, their small beings intent on their task, and would feel quite overwhelmed with amazement that they were his: and with concern for the responsibility of them. It was not a tedious responsibility, rather a pleasurable one, coming from the sense of importance that they gave him, true importance, necessity even. He would like to know how Kitty was, he decided; and besides, Francesca had been so kind to him that day, so thoughtful, had been so patently willing to forgive his past rudeness and hostility. He owed it to her at least to make a phone call.
He picked up the phone, quickly, before he could change his mind, and dialled the house in Hamilton Terrace; Sandie, the housekeeper, answered. He had always rather liked Sandie; more importantly she had liked him.
‘Is Mrs Channing there, please, Sandie? This is Liam Channing.’
‘Liam!’ She didn’t quite say ‘Good God’, but the words hung in the air. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, pretty well, Sandie, thank you. And you?’
‘I’m fine, Liam, yes. But Mrs Channing is out at the – oh, no, here she is now. Just a moment, Liam, I’ll tell her you’re on the line.’
There was a pause; he heard Sandie say, ‘It’s Liam Channing,’ heard Francesca pause before taking the phone, heard her large earring go down on the hall table as she picked it up.
‘Liam! Hallo. This is a pleasant surprise.’
‘I’m pleased it’s pleasant,’ he said, and meant it.
‘Yes,’ she said, slightly awkwardly, ‘it – well yes, it is pleasant.’
‘I realised I’d never thanked you for the other day. You were very kind.’
‘I think the benefit was mutual actually,’ she said. ‘I’d have been arrested otherwise. Or at best crashed the car.’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway, thank you. And also, I wanted to ask you how Kitty was.’
‘Oh. How very nice of you.’
Her voice was lower, suddenly, disproportionately emotional. ‘Yes, well, we still don’t really know. We saw the paediatrician today, she has had tests. She’s – not too good. Although not too bad. She does have a hole in her heart, but it’s very small. We have to see the surgeon next week. That’s all we know.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
‘It must be a great worry for you both,’ he said carefully.
‘Yes. Yes, of course it is. Bard is – well, terribly upset. We both are.’
She sounded awkward; well, it was an awkward conversation. Then she said, ‘And how are things with you?’
‘Oh – filthy,’ he said, without thinking.
‘I’m sorry. What sort of filthy?’
‘Oh – you know.’
‘No, I don’t know.’
He’d have to tell her now, he supposed; or if he didn’t have to, he found he wanted to.
‘Naomi’s lost her job. We’re in a bit of a mess. Her being the major breadwinner and all that. Classic ’nineties problems, you know. Negative equity on the house. That sort of thing.’
‘Liam, I’m so sorry. Is that what you were seeing Bard about the other day?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was helpful? I hope he was.’
‘Not very,’ said Liam, and found he was enjoying it, enjoying telling, showing her what a bastard she was married to. ‘Not at all, actually, I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’ Another long pause; what could she say? ‘Oh, dear. I wish I could help. I don’t think I can. But surely Naomi can get another – ’
‘She’s working on it. It isn’t easy.’
‘No, I’m sure it isn’t. How is Naomi?’
‘Fine,’ he said briefly.
‘Good.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘Well, thank you for ringing, Liam. It was very kind. And – I can’t think what I can do, but I’m always here if you want to talk.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘How odd,’ she said suddenly, ‘that we should be having this conversation. How very odd. I must go. Goodbye, Liam.’
‘Goodbye, Francesca.’
Yes, he thought, how very odd.
‘So very kind,’ said Heather Clarke, looking up from a letter from Bard. ‘What a dear man he is. And even a private plane to take us to the island. And his staff to wait on us. How can we even begin to show him how grateful we are? It worries me sometimes.’
‘I shouldn’t let it,’ said Oliver. He was finding his mother’s attitude to Bard Channing increasingly irritating. ‘The house is there, the staff is there, why shouldn’t he lend it to us? Well, to you.’
‘Oliver, dear, that’s a very harsh attitude,’ said Heather disapprovingly. ‘None of that is the point, it’s thinking of it all, and of us, that makes it so kind.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Oliver. ‘I think he ought to think of you, I think he owes you a lot.’
‘Oliver, what does Mr Channing owe me?’ said Heather. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I agree with Mum,’ said Melinda. ‘I think Mr Channing’s really sweet.’
‘You should work with him,’ said Oliver, ‘then you wouldn’t think he was so sweet.’
‘Your father worked with him. He never complained.’
‘Didn’t he?’ said Oliver, looking at her with interest. ‘Didn’t he ever?’
‘They had their differences, of course. But – ’
‘What sort of differences?’
‘Oliver dear, being in business is like a marriage. You father always said that too. It has its ups and downs, you have to give and take. There were things I’m sure that they didn’t see eye to eye on, but – ’
‘Yeah, and I bet Dad didn’t ever get his way. Old man Channing overrides everybody and everything. If you don’t do what he wants, God help you. Do you know he even wanted to stop you seeing Mrs Booth?’
‘He did? How do you know?’ said Heather.
‘Because he said so. Tried to pretend it might upset you, be bad for you.’
‘I think that’s quite sweet,’ said Heather. She went rather pink. ‘I suppose he thinks talking about the old days … Did he seem very bothered by it, Oliver?’
‘Well – not bothered. He just didn’t want you to. Don’t worry about it.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘I shall worry about it,’ said Heather decisively. ‘If it bothers Mr Channing that much, I won’t see her. I didn’t like her particularly anyway, so there’s really no point. I’ll ring her, Oliver, and tell her I don’t feel up to it. Mr Channing is much more important.’
‘All right,’ said Oliver. ‘Fine.’ He was very weary of the whole subject; it had got him into trouble with Channing, and now he could see there might well be trouble from Teresa Booth. ‘Now look, I think your passport’s expired, I’ll have to get you a new one. Or do you think you could do that, Melinda?’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Melinda. ‘We’re awfully busy at the office at the moment.’
‘You always are,’ said Oliver shortly. ‘Unlike me, of course. OK, I’ll see to it.’ He was finding his womenfolk rather tiresome at the moment. Time he got another girlfriend. Only it was quite a while since he’d met anyone he really fancied. Really fancied, in the sense of liked as well. Maybe on the Greek island …
‘Oh Christ. Oh shit. Holy fucking shit,’ said Kirsten.
Her stomach heaved; she felt icy cold, then very hot, as if she were going to faint. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, praying that she had imagined it, that what she had just read had been a delusion, the result of drinking too much red wine the night before.
It hadn’t.
‘Fuck,’ she said, and then again. ‘Fuck.’
‘Kirsten, what on earth is the matter?’ said Toby. ‘Or are you making some kind of a suggestion? Because I don’t think I could – not just yet.’ He looked at her, grinning over the breakfast table and his copy of the News of the World, his own favourite Sunday reading.
‘Shut up,’ said Kirsten. ‘Just shut up, Toby, will you.’ She forced her eyes back to the page, made herself go on reading it. She was going to spew, she really was.
‘Babe, are you all right? You look awful.’
‘No. No, I’m not. Look, Toby, read this.’ The paper, as she held it out to him, shook; she felt hot and cold at the same time. Toby took it, smiling at her slightly anxiously; a smile that slowly left his face as he read.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Holy shit. Where did this load of bollocks come from?’
‘Me,’ said Kirsten. Her voice was faint, shaky.
‘You? Don’t be insane. It can’t have done.’
‘It did.’
He read on, then: ‘You mean you talked to this woman?’
‘Yup. I did.’
He stared at her, then shook his head, smiling slightly doubtfully. ‘You’re an idiot,’ he said finally.
‘Thanks.’
‘Sorry. But it’s true. When, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Last Friday. Well, the one before last. When you went to New York and I couldn’t come. You know – ten days ago.’
‘But why?’
‘Oh Toby, I don’t know. Well, I suppose I do. He’ll kill me, Toby. Absolutely kill me. Shit, what am I going to do?’ Tears of fright, of panic, welled in her eyes, started rolling down her cheeks. She looked at it again, lying there, in all its horror, irredeemable, inescapable. ‘Tycoon’s family’s hidden heartbreak,’ read the teaser flash on the front page of the Sunday Graphic. Women’s section, page 42. Page 42 showed a large colour photograph of Kirsten taken several years earlier in her Benenden school uniform; God knew where they’d got it. She looked very pretty, but rather strained. It was obviously a lucky photograph, thought Kirsten, dredged out of the cuttings library. The picture was underneath a headline which ran right across the two pages, and said ‘Kirsten Channing tells of her childhood hell’, Judy Wyatt Exclusive.
Next to it was a smaller picture of Kirsten, Barnaby and Victoria, taken at about the same time, with Pattie, sitting on a beach, captioned ‘The family Bard Channing left to sink or swim’, and on the opposite page, a very recent one of Francesca with Jack and Kitty taken for the christening in the drawing room at Stylings, Kitty in myriad frills, Jack in his sailor suit. ‘The new young family with everything.’
‘ “It was not unusual,” Kirsten Channing told me, her husky voice shaky with the memory, “for me to come home and find my mother sobbing helplessly. Life on her own, after my father had left, when I was only eleven, was a terrible struggle for her. She was lonely and very hurt, and she was trying to bring us up single-handed. As the eldest, I felt I had to do everything I could to help, and as my younger brother had been sent away to school at my father’s insistence, I found the burden very heavy. My mother depended on me totally, not only emotionally, but also in a practical way. She couldn’t afford much help, and she was often unwell.”
‘Kirsten loyally did not expand on the nature of her mother’s “unwellness”: Pattie Channing was in fact an alcoholic, and her small daughter had to bear the burden and the shame of that fact as well. An old school friend told me that more than once Kirsten came home to find her mother lying unconscious, once at the foot of the stairs, having fallen from top to bottom.
‘Was her father not available if Kirsten needed him? “He was always working. He’s one of the great workaholics of all time. He was never there, not even at weekends, although he used to come and take us out sometimes. But if my mother was in a very bad way, I never wanted to leave her. Then my father would get upset. I suppose that was understandable, but it was very difficult for me. I would stand listening to him shouting while my mother cried, trying to decide which of them I should spend the day with.”
‘Bard Channing undoubtedly had to work long and hard; he is a self-made millionaire in the property field. As well as a mansion in St John’s Wood, and a vast estate in Sussex, he owns a house in Greece, and a luxury yacht moored in the South of France, Lay Lady Lay, named after a Bob Dylan song.
‘He met the third Mrs Channing fifteen years ago; he has another son, by his first wife, Liam, from whom he is estranged. Liam, who is struggling to find work as a barrister, lives in a small house in North London.
‘Bard Channing proposed to Francesca on television, in front of millions. She in fact married another man and then divorced him before finally yielding to his charms. And of course, the luxury lifestyle.
‘She never speaks to Pattie Channing, has never been near her small Fulham home …’
‘You really are an idiot,’ said Toby again.
‘Toby, for Christ’s sake stop saying that. It doesn’t help.’
‘Sorry. Er – is there any chance he won’t see it? I mean surely he wouldn’t subscribe to this rag?’
‘Oh don’t be so stupid, of course he’ll see it,’ said Kirsten, her voice rising in agony. ‘He sees everything. Everything that’s written about him. If not today, tomorrow. Anyway, people will be ringing him by now, I’m sure. Oh God. Oh God, Toby, what shall I do?’
‘Don’t know. I really don’t know, darling.’ He was very serious now, obviously shaken by what had happened.
‘She promised me,’ said Kirsten, ‘she promised – ’
‘Promised you what?’
‘Not to write anything without showing me.’
‘Kirsten, when were you born? Really!’
‘I know, I know. But I was so angry, so upset with my father. He’d been foul to me, really bawled me out. Told me I was lazy, and taking him and everyone else for a ride, and that – ’
‘Yes?’
‘Disgusted him.’
‘Sounds a bit strong,’ said Toby.
‘Oh, that’s quite mild for him. Honestly, Toby, you have no idea. And then he said he was going to take Francesca to the country for a few days, that she was tired, and I wasn’t to start creating over the weekend. I know why now, their baby’s ill, something wrong with her heart, that makes it worse. Oh, God. But I didn’t then, I thought it was a fuss about nothing, And then Mum rang, and she sounded really really low, and I kept thinking of the difference between us and them. And then that slag phoned – ’
‘Which slag?’ said Toby. ‘I’m getting confused.’
‘The journalist slag. And she said how wonderful it must be for me to be working for my father and how lovely Francesca was and something – snapped. And I went for a drink with her, and – well, you’ve read the rest. I have been a bit worried, but the thing is, Toby, I didn’t say all this. Well, not as much as it sounds. I never said about Mum being an alcoholic – ’
‘No, it says you didn’t,’ said Toby, who was half-reading the article again as she talked.
‘And I did try to be – well, truthful, I said how he bought her the house and came at weekends and everything. But – well anyway,’ she said, her voice wobbling, ‘what do you think I should do?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Toby. ‘I’m really not sure. How about you ring your boss? Sam thingy. See if she’s got any ideas.’
‘Oh,’ said Kirsten, ‘oh Toby, that’s a good idea. The press is her area. She may be able to get this woman to tell my father I didn’t say all this, print a retraction, something – ’ Her voice, tearful, choky, was neverthless suddenly hopeful. ‘Yes, I’ll ring her now. Toby, you are clever.’
She rang Sam; Sam said she hadn’t seen the Graphic, but she’d read the piece and ring her back. Five minutes later she was on the phone; Kirsten could tell by her voice, heavy, struggling against panic, that there wasn’t a lot of hope of a retraction.
‘Kirsten, this is awful. Terrible. Why on earth did you talk to that woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ wailed Kirsten, ‘I just don’t know. I was upset. I was drunk. Oh Sam, what am I going to do? What’s he going to do?’
‘Fire us both, I should think,’ said Sam, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
‘You! Why you?’
‘Because the press is my area. He thinks I can control it. He’ll say I should have known you’d talked to her, that I should have impressed upon you not to do so, that I should have got wind of it and stopped it …’
‘Sam, that’s just not fair. Of course you – ’
‘Whether it’s fair, Kirsten, is irrelevant. As you very well know. He’ll say it. Look, I think the best thing we can do is talk to him together. What are you doing today?’
‘Well – supposed to be going to see my mother.’
‘Call it off. Oh I don’t know. She won’t be feeling too good if she sees it, will she?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten. ‘Oh God, why am I so dumb? If only, if only I hadn’t talked to her – ’
‘Kirsten, if you knew how many times that’s been said over stories in the Sunday papers. Or any papers, come to that – ’
‘Look, I’d better see Mum. I’ll try and make sure she’s OK. Maybe get her boyfriend round – ’
‘Her boyfriend! You’re lucky they didn’t get that one in.’
‘Oh, he’s not really. Just a friend. And then maybe we should go down to Stylings this afternoon. They’re there. I think you’re right. No point running away from it.’
‘Kirsten,’ said Sam, ‘you’re a brave girl.’
Graydon Townsend was grazing swiftly through all the papers, as he liked to do before he even got out of bed on Sunday; he read the article about the Channings with horror and a growing incredulity that someone as intelligent and sharp as Kirsten should have poured her heart out to a third-rate journalist like Judy Wyatt. He also felt very sorry for them all: for Kirsten – why on earth hadn’t someone warned the silly bitch, he was surprised at Sam Illingworth – for Sam herself, who would no doubt take an enormous amount of flak, for Francesca, who really didn’t deserve it, all that crap about how she’d never visited the first wife in her little house, of course she hadn’t visited her, what second – no, third – wife would? He felt very sorry for Pattie, having her alcoholism described so vividly, and he even felt faintly sorry for Bard Channing; was rash enough to say so to Briony after reading selected items from the Wyatt garbage aloud to her.
‘You’re nuts,’ she said briefly. ‘Why should anyone feel sorry for him? The thing is, Gray, whatever you say, he’s done all these things. He did walk out on his wife, and he did therefore subject his children to all that misery, and Pattie was an alcoholic, he knew that. It’s her I feel sorriest for. Can’t say my heart bleeds too much for the daughter. She’s obviously a very tough nut.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Gray without thinking, and then spent the next ten minutes assuring Briony quite untruthfully that any knowledge he had of Kirsten Channing was based on a very brief encounter at a press lunch to announce the northern development.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘we’d better get up because we’re going to have lunch with Marianne and Tim.’
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘not them. Please not them.’
She looked at him, her blue eyes very hard. ‘And why not them? Oh, just don’t bother answering, Gray, and you needn’t bother coming either. I’ll go on my own. You stay here and perfect some little sauce or dust down a few linen jackets.’
‘Briony, I – ’
‘Just piss off,’ she said, most unusually for her, the mildest of creatures: looking at her as she reached for her robe, he saw tears sparkling at the back of her eyes. He reached out for her hand, but she shook him off, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Marianne and Tim had a baby. This was not the only reason Gray didn’t want to go, although the constant unveiling of a huge veined breast, a dripping nipple and a distinctly grubby bra did not seem entirely charming to him, and nor did the enthusiastic accounts of how long after midnight the baby had slept the previous night, as opposed to the one before, or the earnest discussion on the state of the latest nappy. He also found their house (1930s) and garden (small rectangular lawn surrounded with equally geometric flowerbeds) depressing, the interminable tweeting of the two canaries which lived in the kitchen enraging, and Briony and Marianne’s reminiscences about their wild days at art school hugely tedious. But he knew, deep down, it was the baby, and Briony knew it too.
She came back half an hour later, looking heartbreakingly pretty in a long white skirt and clinging pink T-shirt, and said, ‘Gray, I think I’ll go and spend tonight with my sister. I want to talk to her and I don’t really want to talk to you.’
‘About the – the baby issue.’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, darling, I – ’
‘You think it would have to be like Marianne and Tim, I know you do, and it really wouldn’t. I’d never ever discuss nappy duty or – ’
‘Briony, I know that. But you would change. We’d both change. There’d be something wrong if we didn’t. And I just don’t see why we have to.’
‘Because I want to.’ She was shouting at him now. ‘I want it so much. And you won’t even think about it properly.’ And then she was gone. The slam of the door echoed in his ears all day.
Francesca found it rather hard to care about the article, as she found it rather hard to care about anything at the moment. She could not imagine how she had ever thought any of the things that had beset her throughout her life – exams, boyfriends, losing her virginity, the odd pregnancy scare, and so on to more serious ones, her first marriage, her dangerous relationship with Bard within it, and the discovery of that, the contemplation of what marriage to him was really going to mean, and then the realisation of what it did – mattered; none of these things could begin to compare with the heavy, ugly weight of this new fear, the fear about Kitty and her frail little heart. She fell asleep with it beside her on the pillow, woke with it snapping instantly onto her consciousness in the morning, carried it about with her all day. She replayed Mr Lauder’s words again and again to herself: the hole was small, the risk slight, most children with her condition were fine, and she found them, those words, seriously wanting; she still longed, more than anything in the world, to sit down and scream, very loudly and repeatedly, several times a day. She was focused entirely on the meeting with Mr Moreton-Smith on Tuesday; although she knew that would solve nothing immediately, she felt it was at least some kind of certainty, they would be further down the road, on this nightmare journey, there would be new areas shaded in on the map, new signposts to follow. And until then, nothing, nothing at all, seemed to have any reality. Certainly not an absurd article in a tacky Sunday paper, not even an article that cast herself in a bad light, that had further estranged her from Kirsten, and Kirsten from Bard, that had driven Bard into a rage and horror so violent that she had sent Nanny out for a long walk with both the children until he had calmed and quietened down. It just didn’t seem to matter. It wasn’t important. It wasn’t life and death.
Kirsten was in the shower when her father rang: a subdued Toby came to tell her. ‘He sounds none too pleased,’ he said.
She wrapped herself in her thick robe, hugging it tightly round her for comfort, picked up the phone. ‘Dad?’
‘Unfortunately yes. I can tell you I would much rather someone else was your father. For God’s sake, Kirsten, have you no brains at all? How could you do it? To me? To your mother? To Francesca? To yourself, for that matter? Talk to this – God almighty, Kirsten, I cannot believe it. Even of you.’
‘Dad, can I come and see you? With Sam? Maybe explain.’
‘Come and see me? You certainly can not. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you anywhere near me. Just stay away. Well away. Apart from anything else, I don’t want Francesca subjected to any more of this than she has to be. She has enough to cope with at the moment. And tell Sam to stay away as well. I don’t want either of you here, do you understand?’
Kirsten was silent.
‘What’s Sam got to do with it, anyway? Did she have some part in this?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten quickly, ‘absolutely no part at all. I just thought – ’
‘I didn’t know you could think. You’ve shown very little sign of it so far. On second thoughts, get Sam to ring me, would you?’
‘Yes. Yes, all right. Dad, I’m sorry, really sorry – ’
‘I daresay you are,’ he said, and put the phone down.
Kirsten walked back into the kitchen; she felt exhausted, sore all over. ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said to Toby. ‘I really need to be on my own.’
‘Well, if you’re sure – ’ he said. He was obviously relieved. He didn’t like dramas, Toby didn’t. He liked his life comfortable.
She heard his car driving away, with considerable relief; and then had to rush into the bathroom where she was violently and repeatedly sick.
