A Woman's Place (56 page)

She should answer bluntly that Fred had not asked her, but that would be a lie. Any other response would be an admission. Either would lead to further probing. Karen restricted herself to a
shrug and a half-smile, as if the subject did not interest her.

Betts blew a smoke ring and looked disappointed. Karen examined him under her lashes. Stonewalling was clearly the right way to deal with him. Perhaps if he failed in all his objectives with her he would cross her off his list and leave her alone in future.

The waiter approached. ‘For madam I can recommend the poached quail's eggs with tomato jelly and caviar, or the warm duck tart and foie gras salad,' he urged unctuously. ‘Followed by oysters in champagne, or lobster and leeks, if madam prefers. The main course –'

‘Blimey,' muttered Karen.

The waiter was not deterred. ‘Madam might find the fillet of brill to her taste with a crab, spinach and mustard sauce, a speciality of the house, or a roast guinea fowl –'

‘You got any beef?' Betts demanded.

‘Certainly, sir, two kinds.' The waiter pointed delicately with his Biro. ‘Fillet of beef with aubergine, potatoes and morels, or Beef Wellington – that's in a pastry case with the chef's pâté – with creamed spinach.' He paused, then moved away. ‘Take your time, sir, madam.'

‘What the bloody hell are morels?' Betts spluttered as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

‘Dunno.' Karen felt a twinge of sympathy, then hardened her heart. She put down the menu. ‘I suppose it's good value for forty-nine pounds each if you think about it, what with lashings of pud to come. But I don't think I have much appetite.'

‘I can afford it,' Betts responded huffily.

Karen folded her hands in her lap. If Betts's real purpose in meeting her was to parade and augment his fund of knowledge about Fred and her mother it was clear he knew less than she had feared. They were not safe – they would never be safe – but he had nothing fresh to impart or he would have produced it already. On the other hand, that glitter in his eyes indicated that his other motive, to worm his way into her own life once more, had become his priority. As far as Karen was concerned, that meant the evening was finished. To settle down to a five-course meal would, however, have tied her to his side for hours. The problem was how to remove herself from his company. She took a deep breath.

‘I don't doubt it. But I'd be happier elsewhere. I am sorry but I don't wish to stay.'

Betts began to protest, then with a muttered oath he stubbed out his cigarette, called to the waiter, paid for the drinks and retrieved her coat. She rose and turned towards the main entrance. To her annoyance he fell into step beside her. So he had not given up, yet.

As the pair moved down the lobby they failed to notice the young Asian man who observed their progress at first with vague attention and then with a gasp of recognition. Hurriedly Varun tossed some coins on the table before following them. If Karen did not want to spend another minute with Betts, somebody else did.

In St James's it was cooler. Starlings twittered overhead and fought for roosts. Tourists and
theatre-goers
in groups and pairs strolled by, engrossed in their own affairs. Karen frowned. It would have been better to have emerged at the hotel's other exit near Green Park Tube; however, the
early-evening
air was pleasant enough for walking, or she might for once take a cab. She could aim for her mother's flat, but only if she could shake off her unwanted companion. To her satisfaction Betts, though still attempting to talk to her, looked cross. She suspected he would try to claim the £100 bill even though it did not nestle in his wallet.

Together they walked briskly down the busy street, past shop windows filled with leather riding boots and top hats. The journalist continued to dig for information but the girl was visibly fidgeting. It dawned on Betts that Karen had no intention whatever of spending the evening with him, let alone planning more intense activity later.

They stopped near the Carlton Club. Nearby a taxi came to a halt, double-parked. Karen
looked hopefully towards it. Betts calculated urgently. The girl was not to escape. He grabbed her elbow.

‘You know I've always fancied you, Karen,' he murmured. ‘Ever since … well, you know. I'm sorry I was rough with you that night. I'd had too much to drink. I'm not normally like that.'

Karen made herself give an answering nod. ‘Well, thanks for the apology. You took your time about it.'

‘So come on, Karen. I'm not hungry. Not for food, that is. Don't go.'

The girl tried to tug her arm free. The taxi pulled into the kerb a few yards from her: its driver appeared to be checking his books. She could simply open the door, climb in and tell him to drive off. Betts could then churn out his lies without her assistance, tacit or otherwise, and she would speak to him no more, ever.

Before she could move a harsh new voice interrupted from behind.

‘Mr Betts? It is Jim Betts of the
Globe
, isn't it?'

Betts let go Karen's arm, turned and found a young Asian man standing before him, feet planted firmly, legs apart, hands on hips. He was tall for an Asian and stocky, and he was scowling. Karen stepped swiftly towards the cab but hesitated. She wondered what was going on.

‘I'm Betts, yes. Who are you?'

‘I saw you in the Ritz. My name is Varun Bhadeshia. Does that mean anything?'

‘Never met you in my life.' Betts was impatient. ‘Come on, Karen.'

The youth came close and shoved Betts belligerently in the chest. ‘You know my father. In fact you wrecked my father's life. Our whole family. You, with your foul articles in your newspaper. I hoped some day I'd find you. Now I have.'

‘Oh yeah?' Betts tried to elbow his challenger out of the way but Bhadeshia did not budge. The journalist glared. ‘So – whatcha going to do about it?'

His aggression seemed to touch an exposed nerve in Varan. The boy took a step towards Betts, his mouth twisted in bitterness. His voice lifted.

‘Mr Betts, you are evil – you are the lowest of the low! A swine!' One or two heads started to twist in their direction. ‘I have justice on my side. See – this is what will do!'

To Karen's horror the young man raised his right fist and before anyone could cry out or stop him aimed it straight at Betts's face.

George had reached the traffic lights at Victoria Street. He glanced at his watch. It was barely eight o'clock. If Elaine was at her flat and intended to emerge in time for the ten o'clock vote then he was a little early. He recognised too that his nerve was failing him, much as he longed to see her. Perhaps it would help if he had a drink.

On the corner stood the Albert, its billboards emblazoned with the statement that it had been
Evening Standard
Pub of the Year. He liked the fact that the frontage was not festooned with bay trees or pretending to be an Italian trattoria: it was self-evidently and reassuringly traditional.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. For a moment he was startled by the noise and smoke. The place was packed. Just about everyone present, including the bar staff, was younger than himself. But he did not feel in the mood to seek somewhere quieter, and its cheeriness was in its favour. He hesitated over the choice of drink, then settled for a half-pint of beer which he carried to a small corner table; there he sat, sipping and thinking.

The jumbled reflections of an hour before had nearly sorted themselves out. The future looked much clearer. He would press Elaine to take him on, for better for worse. And he would persist until she agreed.

For her, things couldn't be worse than now. Surely she would see that if a man were willing to stand by her in these days of utmost misery he would also be the right person to have around in
sunnier moments?

Or would that seem like shroud-chasing? Would she be revolted and get the idea that he was trying to stage a rescue so that she would be grateful? Gratitude was not a sound basis for a relationship. On the contrary, he did not want her to feel beholden to him in any way. He would have to handle their next meeting with great care.

The question remained: what did she need? What did
she
need? George squared his shoulders. She needed him, that's what. All that remained was to find the language to convince her.

It came to him, and he laughed softly, ruefully at himself. In posing the question he had found the answer. In putting her needs before his own, he had become the perfect partner for such a woman.

He knew what he needed – and did not need. He didn't want a conventional wife. That was why he had never found himself in the least tempted by the dozens on offer. They'd have bored him silly. A woman who hung on his every utterance, who saw her role as to act through him and to him, who sought no more than to be a wife and mother – he would have tolerated such a woman but found her frustrating, limiting. He needed a partner with a life and mind of her own, a self-starter with an independent spark, who would not want him around every minute of the day. Who sometimes would not need him at all, and that was hard for many men to accept. Her. Elaine.

A lady like that – he paused. No, he did not want to be her bag-carrier. Somehow he saw that she would not expect that either. But her helpmeet, her companion, her lover – her escort, of course, her
man
– the shoulder to cry on, the soothing caress in the darkest hours of the night: he could offer that easily, and with a full heart.

And if she should refuse a second time his own heart would be empty. But he would go on asking, again and again.

He raised the beer glass and drained it. He did not require another. Amused at his own regained self-control he rose and headed for the door. Her street was a few minutes' walk away.

It was, Karen thought later, a moment she would long savour, as Betts staggered, his hands cupped to his face, a red trickle oozing through his fingers. The blow had landed so swiftly and cleanly that hardly anyone had noticed. A couple of tourists skirted the trio delicately. The cabbie had raised his eyes, then returned to his notebooks. The two men stood facing each other, Varun dancing on the balls of his feet, his fists up.

She should separate them. Neither should get involved in a fight, not here in public. Above their heads a street light switched itself on with an audible ping. It made Betts, half bent clutching his face, look far more sinister than the smartly dressed young Asian.

‘You bastard.' Betts lunged at the boy and pushed him hard in the chest. Taken by surprise Bhadeshia stumbled and fell. As he rolled over and struggled to rise, Betts instinctively reverted to his own adolescence in the back streets of Toxteth where rough and tumble with fists or boots was a way of life. Self-defence, it was called. Do it quickly and run. Nobody ever went to the police.

Self-defence against this jumped-up black bugger, whoever he was, would be a pleasure. With a grunt Betts lifted his foot and landed a hard kick in the boy's ribs, then another. Varun cried out and tried to scramble away. The cabbie, disturbed at last by the commotion, reached for his radio.

‘Stop it! What are you doing? You'll hurt him. Stop!'

Desperately Karen tugged at Betts's sleeve but his temper was up. ‘I'll teach you,' he snarled. ‘Paki bastard. You'll sort me out, will you? We'll see about that…' And he aimed again to land another blow, but lower down, at the boy's kidneys.

Karen never planned what happened next. She knew she should have tried to prevent Varun's attack but it had come so unexpectedly. Betts's response, however, was uncontrolled and vicious. Her loathing of him rose in her throat like bile. She was secretly pleased the Asian had hit him, particularly since the punch might alter Betts's appearance: it would not be improved by a flattened
nose but he would suffer no real harm. What he was trying to do to the boy, however, was different. It looked as if Betts might continue literally to put the boot in till he had landed Bhadeshia in hospital.

She could not let him continue. He
had
to be stopped.

‘Look at me!' she commanded. Betts paused and half turned as the boy lay moaning, but his foot was ready for the next assault.

The teacher in the Tai-kwondo class always warned against trying anything other than with a trained opponent. The rear leg axe, for example, could blind a man, or crack a cheekbone: the muscles of the hamstring and gluteus maximus contract on impact to produce tremendous power.

She stepped forward as she had been taught, weight on the right leg, arms upraised to give balance. Then she unleashed the kick, aiming low, and felt the flesh shudder as she hit home:
right in his genitals
.

Betts gagged and doubled over, clutching his groin. With a sob he slipped, to become an ungainly heap next to his victim. For a moment he struggled to rise, then lay, winded and retching, on the pavement.

Karen calculated that Betts would not be seriously injured; she was more concerned about Varun. She reached down to him. ‘You OK?'

Warily the young man scrambled to his feet, one hand pressed to his side. With the other he dusted off his trousers as well as he could. ‘Thanks. I owe you for that.'

Then he looked up anxiously. The altercation had attracted official attention: in the distance a constable was marching smartly down from Piccadilly Circus, his radio raised to his lips. ‘I think we should make ourselves scarce – I have to see a man about a job.' The boy slipped away and vanished into a side street.

It had only taken a few seconds. Varun had a point. Karen must either stay, which meant she had some explaining to do, or leave without further ado.

She felt very shaky. As she turned away it came to her that never again would she be frightened of Jim Betts, or anyone. She it was who had emerged triumphant, not him. He was curled up, his nose swollen, knees tight to his chest, making nasal mewing noises which disgusted her. A little bravado was in order.