Chapter 55
Rose was sitting on her favourite bench in the square when she saw Marjorie Brough-Badham hurrying towards her. Putting down her knitting and shielding her eyes from the sun, she saw that Marjorie was carrying an armful of glossy magazines.
‘Marjorie, how nice to see you,’ said Rose. ‘You’re looking . . . well.’
If a bit wild-eyed, to be honest.
‘I saw you out here. Had to come and tell you.’ Straight-shouldered as ever, Marjorie abruptly sat down next to Rose and said, ‘You’ll never guess.’
The magazines weren’t magazines, Rose realised. They were upmarket travel brochures.
‘Um . . . you’re off on holiday?’
‘No! Well, yes,’ Marjorie flapped her hand impatiently at the brochures, signalling their unimportance in the great scheme of things, ‘but that’s not it. You can’t imagine what’s happened.’
Was she supposed to try? A trifle despairingly, Rose said, ‘What is it?’
‘Geoffrey’s mother died yesterday.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Heavens, it was hard to imagine Geoffrey having a mother. ‘Is he dreadfully upset?’
Marjorie barked with laughter, then abruptly covered her mouth. ‘It’s certainly had an effect on him. The matron from the nursing home rang yesterday morning to let him know that Alice had died in her sleep. Passed away peacefully, the best way to go and all that. Well, she was ninety-four, so it was hardly unexpected. Bit of a battleaxe, to be frank. Always ruled her family with a rod of iron. Used to call Margaret Thatcher a wet blanket.’
Carefully Rose said, ‘I see.’
‘We were having breakfast together at the time. When the matron phoned,’ Marjorie gabbled on, her fingers agitatedly rolling a corner of one of the travel brochures. ‘Not the kind of having-breakfast-together you see on TV. Geoffrey was reading his Telegraph in silence. I was sitting there wondering what it must be like to feel happy. Anyway, he took the call, spoke to the matron, then told me his mother was dead. After that he left the room for twenty minutes. When he returned he sat back down at the breakfast table, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and asked me to pass him the marmalade.’
‘Right.’ Rose wondered where on earth this was going.
‘So by then his toast was stone cold of course - he hates it when his toast is cold - but he buttered it anyway and spread it with marmalade. And I said, “Are you all right, Geoffrey?” and he looked across the table at me and said, “Yes thank you, absolutely fine. I’m a homosexual.”’
Rose dropped her knitting. ‘Oh good grief. Just like that? Oh Marjorie . . .’
‘I know, I know! Can you believe it? I couldn’t move. I said, “What are you talking about?” and Geoffrey said, “I’m sorry, but it’s true.” So I said, “You can’t tell me that when your mother has just died,” and he said, “Marjorie, I can tell you that because my mother has just died.”’
‘You poor thing,’ breathed Rose, recalling the moment last week after Doreen’s abduction when Zac and William had walked into the kitchen together, Zac’s guilty secret from his father no longer a secret. Fear and alarm had initially flickered across the Brigadier’s granite features; Rose had glimpsed them there before he had rapidly composed himself.
Maybe Zac’s happy outcome had prompted him to try for one of his own.
‘And that was when it all came out,’ Marjorie continued. ‘Geoffrey told me everything.’
Everything? Heavens above.
‘And I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but I actually ended up feeling sorry for him. And relieved.’ Marjorie nodded vehemently, her eyes abruptly brimming with tears. ‘Yes, relieved. Because I realised it meant I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I can’t tell you what a weight off my mind that was! You see, it’s not that I’ve been an undesirable wife all these years. Geoffrey simply wasn’t able to, well, desire me because I was the wrong sex. Oh, look at me, blubbing again when there’s absolutely no need. I know I’m probably still in a state of shock, but I woke up this morning feeling happy! You wouldn’t believe how much talking Geoffrey and I did yesterday . . . heavens, more talking than we’ve done in our whole marriage! He apologised for being so buttoned-up all these years. Basically, he’s just been incredibly unhappy, feeling he can never be himself. Poor man, all that shame and guilt takes its toll. And I was never remotely sympathetic because I didn’t know why he’d distanced himself from me . . . Anyway, that’s all behind us now. Last night Geoffrey offered me a divorce . . . damn and blast, where did I put that hankie?’ She fumbled clumsily in her skirt pocket.
Rose handed her a clean tissue. ‘Is that what you’re going to do?’
‘No, not yet. Maybe not at all.’ Shaking her head and noisily blowing her nose, Marjorie said, ‘We’ve decided to leave it for now. We’re used to each other, you see. As companions at least. It’ll take a while to become accustomed to living alone, so we’re putting this house on the market and buying two more, but we shall share them. A villa in Menorca, we thought. And a cottage in North Wales. That way, sometimes we’ll be together and sometimes we won’t.’ She paused, dabbing at her long nose with the tissue. ‘Does that sound silly?’
Rose said warmly, ‘It sounds like an excellent idea.’
‘So that’s something to look forward to. And in the meantime I’ve decided to take a cruise. I’ve always wanted to try it, but Geoffrey was never keen on cruising. So I’m going to go alone!’
Clearly, Marjorie’s wasn’t aware that cruising had other connotations. Rose tactfully didn’t mention it.
‘I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you this.’ Like a brief shower, Marjorie’s tears had passed and she was looking cheerful again. ‘My husband’s a homosexual and I’m actually happy about it, because now at last everything makes sense!’
‘That’s wonderful. Er, does he know you’re over here?’ Rose couldn’t help glancing across at the glinting windows of number sixty-four, wondering if the Brigadier was aware that he was being publicly outed.
‘He’s gone to Hampshire to organise the funeral. Sounds frightful, but I’m rather glad Alice died now. Poor Geoffrey, he could never have done it while she was alive. Men are funny creatures, aren’t they?’ Pausing to think about it, Marjorie said brightly, ‘Mind you, I suppose if I was a lesbian my mother would have been cross with me too.’
Biba’s tabloid of choice had been running with the story for the last six days and Rennie was beginning to know how it felt to be a pantomime villain. When he ventured out, women of all ages narrowed their eyes at him in disgust and muttered sneering insults under their breath. One or two had even hissed.
Maybe he should get a T-shirt with It’s not mine printed across the front.
As he climbed out of the car in leafy Fulham, Rennie looked up at the second-floor apartment and saw Jodie at the window gazing impassively down at him. Following their last encounter at the hospital, the paper had reported that he had caused mayhem in the reception area, turning up and loudly demanding to see Biba and the baby before having to be ejected by security guards. Biba had reportedly been in floods of tears and deeply shaken by the incident.
God, no wonder everyone despised him. If he passed himself in the street he’d hiss too.
‘I’d like to see Biba. Alone,’ Rennie said pointedly when Jodie answered the door.
‘Suit yourself.’ Jodie showed him through to the living room and left them to it.
Biba, far prettier without make-up and wearing a simple emerald-green velour tracksuit, was sitting on the cream leather couch with her feet up on the sleek chrome and glass coffee table, painstakingly applying clear varnish to her toenails. Looking up at Rennie she waggled her fingers and said, ‘Hi, babes. All right?’
‘I’m not the father.’ Rennie had come straight from his lawyer’s office. He held out his copy of the official result of the DNA test.
‘I know. My agent just rang. Sorry, babes.’ Biba carefully fastened the lid on the nail varnish bottle and gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Are you disappointed?’
Since there really wasn’t any answer to that, Rennie said, ‘You knew it wasn’t me. You knew all along.’
Biba pushed back her long ash-blond hair, careful not to get her fingers tangled in the knots attaching the extensions to her scalp.
‘Rennie, don’t be cross. You know how this business works, right? If you can sell a story, you sell it. You’d be mad not to. Look at it from my point of view. I’m a single mother with a baby to support. Now, do I take some crappy little office job for five quid an hour and work my fingers to the bone to earn enough money to buy a pram? Or do I go to the papers for twenty grand and let Hi! magazine into my lovely home for another thirty?’
Rennie repeated, ‘But I’m not the father.’
‘You slept with me. You could have been.’ Biba shrugged, blithely unconcerned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll put out a press release announcing it wasn’t you. Oh, come on, babes, it’s over now. You’re off the hook. Don’t be grumpy.’
She was right, Rennie realised. There was absolutely no point in losing his temper because Biba genuinely didn’t feel she’d done anything wrong. This was, effectively, how she earned her living.
The babes thing was getting on his nerves though - she hadn’t called him that when they’d been together in New York. He’d never have slept with her if she had.
Biba said cheerfully, ‘Want to see him, then?’
Did he? Rennie nodded. For some reason he really did want to see this child who had, through no fault of its own, caused him such trouble.
Keeping her wet toes splayed, Biba carefully hauled herself upright and led the way through to the nursery. The baby lay in his ornately carved cot, asleep, with his chubby hands curled above his head.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ This time Biba spoke with genuine pride. ‘I just love him to bits. Oops . . .’
At the sound of her voice the baby’s eyes had snapped open. As he regarded them in silence for several seconds,
Rennie found himself, ridiculously, searching for some hint of a resemblance between this week-old infant and himself. How would he feel if this child had been his? How must it feel to have a child with someone you actually loved?
‘Want to hold him?’ Biba offered. ‘Just for a few seconds, before he starts screaming the place down.’
Rennie lifted the baby out of the cot and held him in his arms. His heart swelled with emotion; it really was incredible, the ability babies had to make you feel—
‘Ha, you big softie, you’re crying!’ crowed Biba.
‘I am not.’ Cursing himself, Rennie blinked furiously.
‘You wuss! Wait till I tell Jodie!’
Great, something to really look forward to.
‘You made me think I was a father,’ Rennie told Biba. ‘And I’m not.’
‘Oh, cheer up, I thought you’d be thrilled to be off the hook.’ Surveying him with amusement, Biba said, ‘Tell you what, I’ll be getting him christened in a few months. You can be godfather if you like.’
‘No thanks.’ As the baby opened his mouth to yell out in protest about the lack of food, Rennie passed him over to Biba. ‘He’s a pretty good weight, isn’t he? Doesn’t look premature.’
Biba, her eyes dancing with mischief, said, ‘Now if you were selling your story to the paper, which would sound more exciting to you? Mother in labour rushed to hospital for emergency life-saving op? Or, mother turns up carrying suitcase, ready for pre-booked caesarean?’ She shrugged. ‘Go on, pick one. Your choice.’
Of course. Why hadn’t that occurred to him before?
Anyway, it was all over now. Deciding he was relieved, Rennie said, ‘Did Josie give you the parcel I brought to the hospital?’
‘That funny little cardigan-type thing?’ Biba wrinkled her nose. ‘Was that meant to be some kind of joke?’
‘Didn’t it fit?’ Rennie thought of the amount of work that had gone into the outfit.
‘I’ve no idea, we didn’t put it on him! Only the best designer gear for this one, thanks very much.’ Patting her son’s duck-egg blue romper suit, Biba said with pride, ‘Try Versace, if you want to buy him something else. Or Baby Dior.’
Rennie turned to leave. At the door he paused.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Come on, you think I’m going to tell you that now?’ Biba flashed him a triumphant smile. ‘Can’t let the cat out of the bag yet, can we, babes?’ This time, thankfully, the babes was directed at her son. ‘You’ll have to wait and read all about it,’ she told Rennie, ‘in next week’s Hi!’
Rennie shook his head; he no longer had the energy to be angry. It was his own fault for tangling with a girl like Biba in the first place. He had no one to blame but himself.
‘Rennie? Can we still be friends?’
He looked over at Biba posing with her son beside the cot, supremely aware of the touching tableau they made. ‘I don’t think so. After all, we never were.’
She kissed the baby’s dark downy head, then hoisted him up to her shoulder.
‘Oh well, never mind. But you do understand why I did it, don’t you? Going to the papers is money for old rope. I needed the money, so I gave them the rope.’
‘You certainly did that,’ Rennie agreed.
‘But it’s over now,’ Biba said chirpily. ‘No harm done, babes. You can just carry on being you, having a ball and breaking hearts . . .’
No harm done. For a moment he was almost tempted to tell her just how much harm had been done. And that the only heart to have been broken was his own.
But what would be the point of that?
‘Bye,’ said Rennie.