Bums on Seats (5 page)

The clinic was a low modern building, and her room was ready: bright and fresh with colourful curtains. Mamuna stayed to settle her in. The nurses and duty doctor were Zombekian and were friendly and professional. She felt reassured and didn't regret deciding against flying in a specialist. It looked as if it would have been too late anyway. An hour later her contractions were coming at five-minute intervals and the doctor gave her a close examination.

Another hour and it was becoming painful. Perspiration poured off her. It was almost time for gas and air. She moaned through gritted teeth at the height of each convulsion. The contractions stopped! The doctor listened through his stethoscope. “Don't worry the baby's fine. This sometimes happens.”

She started again. Contractions were now four minutes and agony. The nurse wheeled the cylinders over and gave her the mask. Events blurred into a continuous nightmare. “Breathe deeply but don't push yet.” … “Aaaghh!” … “Everything's all right; first babies take their time.” … “Aaaghh!” … Then later: “The baby seems to be in the wrong position. The head is right back. I'm going to help it turn, Mrs Fairhurst.”

“Christ, it's bloody agony … Ohhh,” The nurse discreetly checked the forceps under the cover on the trolley. Mamuna watched from the corridor.

Another three hours and the contractions were at two minutes, but the baby was no further down. “I can see the top of the head…” The doctor listened with his stethoscope. The baby was becoming distressed. It was fifteen hours since Sarah had entered the clinic. The doctor had very clear orders. The nurse hurried from the room to the operating theatre. It would have to be a caesarean section birth. Sarah passed out.

The doctor cut through the abdominal and intrauterine walls and reached for the baby. His eyes widened, but he said nothing. He passed the child and placenta to a nurse and set about closing. The nurse and the anaesthetist exchanged glances, but were equally silent. There was no sound other than the hum of electrical apparatus. The nurse hurried from the theatre.

Sarah was heavily sedated. She slept for 32 hours. She rejoined the world to a still and silent room. She tried to sit up and gasped with the hurt. Where was her baby? She rang the bell. Mamuna came.

“Where's my baby?” Mamuna knelt by the bed, tears streaming.

“Sarah, your little boy was born dead! I'm so sorry.”

“Dead! Dead! The doctor said the heartbeat was normal. There must be a mistake. Get them to bring him to me!” she screamed.

“Sarah it was a very difficult birth. The strain was too much for his heart.”

“No! No! I want to see my baby. Now!”

“Sarah, you've been sleeping for thirty-two hours. William came yesterday. He was very upset. He sat with you half the night. But he had to go. The presidential inauguration is very soon. There's still much to do.”

“Much to do! Much to do! Where's my baby Mamuna?”

The doctor entered. “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Fairhurst. I did everything anyone could possibly have done.”

“But where's my baby?” she shrieked.

“In Zombek we believe the dead must be buried as soon as possible. This is the way to avoid evil spirits. Mr. Fairhurst agreed to a funeral yesterday. Your baby has gone to heaven.”

Sarah became hysterical and inconsolable. The doctor, fearing for both her heart and sanity, sedated her again.

When she came to, she tossed and turned this way and that, her mind in turmoil. Eventually, William appeared. It was the morning of the inauguration. She didn't wait for him to speak.

“You bastard! You rotten selfish bastard! You kept me in this bloody heathen place to help you with your career.” Her voice rose to a scream. “You don't give a shit about anything or anyone, other than yourself Now you've killed my baby and buried him – without me even holding him – well fuck off to your bloody inauguration. I hope it kills you, too.”

He tried to speak. “Sarah darling…” She reached out and threw a vase of flowers. He turned and left. She cried for another two hours.

The state occasion was a great success. It also heralded a big step forward in William Fairhurst's career and a long period of sadness for Sarah. She left for her parents' London home three weeks later. A year after that, she obtained a divorce.

CHAPTER 7

1996

The old MGB roared up the winding ramp, tyres squealing on ribbed concrete, noxious fumes belching. Simon swung onto Level Four, beating an old gent in a custard coloured Metro for the last parking space. Even Schumacher would have lost out today!

Smiling at the old gent's shaken fist, he bounded off to the top floor of the mall. It was Saturday, he was alive and had money in his pocket. Great!

The redhead in the CD shop found his order, Carly Simon in Concert. “She's great, isn't she – really gives a song a bit of wellie. I said on the 'phone we'd get it in twenty four hours for you!”

“I'm impressed, but I bet it was you, not the shop,” he flirted. “You like Carly Simon then,” he laughed. A frowning, thin-lipped, manager-looking woman stepped forward, her name printed on a lapel-tag. Simon didn't read it, didn't need to. It would say Mrs Hitler or Helga Frankenstein or the like. He quickly handed over fifteen pounds, collected his change, said, “Another time!” and left. He never set out to have romantic encounters. They just seemed to, well, happen. Was it all right to carry on in this fashion at thirty? Would he still be doing it at forty? People often died at fifty! A lifetime's philandering and all of it accidental.

The Mall was great. It was huge and imaginative. It was as if an architect had taken a three-shops-high, two-hundred-yards-long high street and plonked it down in a glasshouse at Kew Gardens. The place buzzed with life and wellbeing. The winter sun beamed through the glass roof, adding realism to the frequent artificial plants and trees, and illuminating the lives of the shoppers. All the shops were sited around the walls. Centrally located moving stairs and lifts disgorged a stream of eager spenders onto wide terrazzo pavements. Ten thousand would visit today and a couple of million pounds change hands.

Simon passed an hour looking at shirts. There were at least twenty shops selling them. He visited four shops and paid £40 for a Ben Sherman at the last. It would complement his chinos. He followed his nose to a coffee shop, collected a cappuccino and sat at an outside table, sipping, watching and musing.

A minute or two later fate, carrying three carrier bags, a posh parcel and balancing an espresso, joined him. “You are alone, Simon?”

How delightful; it was Sally Mison, the Vice-Chancellor's delicious wife. “I was, but reluctantly so, Sally.” He rose, dragged her a chair and kissed her cheek in one fluent move. Here I go again, he thought. Why do I keep on doing it?

“That's nice; it's lovely to see you, Simon.” She looked directly into his eyes from a range of one foot. “Shopping's fun but it's never long before I crave company. Money and spending are a bit impersonal, aren't they?” She didn't wait for an answer and continued, “Mind you, some people don't value human contact at all. I can't understand that.” She continued speaking on and on, but the voice he heard receded.

God, she was lovely. He lost concentration and what she said became peripheral. Looking at her and listening to the low cultured voice was, he mused, the microcosmic equivalent of admiring a work of art in the Tate Gallery, whilst listening to the London Symphony Orchestra play Tchaikovsky. His mind meandered in this melodramatic, extravagant and romantic way until she said, “Simon, SIMON, are you there?”

“Sorry, I got carried away by a train of thought. It's hunger pangs and I feel lightheaded. Look, do you fancy something to eat and a glass of wine?”

“I'd love that Simon, great idea.” She festooned all the packages about his person and linked her arm through his as they strolled companionably. He wondered if heaven was a shopping mall.

The vibrancy of the mall carried on into the bistro. There were too many tables for the space but it added to the intimacy. Down lighters illuminated colourful wall posters and threw pleasing shadows. The table staff were all young, cheerful and moved at speed. Simon and Sally hunched knee to knee and sipped the wine. A beaming black lad brought two skillets, cut them a slice of seafood pizza each and left the rest in the hot pans. They held the food with paper napkins, ate with their fingers and chatted between mouthfuls. Simon poured more wine and changed his mind about heaven. He now knew it was here.

“Tell me about your focus group, Simon.”

“Oh, err, we're having our first meeting next week.”

“Stuart is expecting big things from you. He's heard that you're imaginative and energetic – a man of the future. What lines are you thinking of for raising university income?”

Simon took a long sip of wine, moving his mind up through the gears. “Well, I do have an idea, Sally, but I'm not sure how seriously I'll be taken.”

“Nonsense, Simon. I'd take you very seriously. I'm sure any perceptive person would. What's your idea?”

Somehow his left knee seemed trapped between hers. The restaurant felt suddenly warm. She looked intently at him. Her face was very near. He smelled her perfume. He wondered if she could see right into his mind and hoped not. “I think we should make a special thing of attracting overseas students.”

“But we already have overseas students, don't we?” She helped herself to the last piece of pizza from his skillet.

“Yes, but it's almost accidental. I mean we should establish procedures to target numbers, and then process them through an educational structure which recognises their country's needs.” He sipped the wine wondering if he'd said too much.

“Yes, I think I see. You mean tailor our administrative procedures to become sort of student-friendly?” She emptied the last of the carafe into her glass.

“Well, sort of. We should perhaps target one country first and liaise with their Ministry of Education. We could, say, establish joint committees to oversee all those things that, although important, sometimes hinder education. And, of course, in so doing inhibit our income,” he added in a moment of inspiration.

“Brilliant, Simon, you mean really get some focus on fundamentals and beat the market, so to speak. Where would you start?”

“Well, we have a post-grad student from Zombek who's forward-looking and well connected at home. If I had approval, I could start to take soundings. Mind you, he's only here for another year, so we'd need to move swiftly to take advantage of that.” He mentally breathed out and reached for a piece of pizza, but the waiter was already heading for the kitchen with the empty pans.

“Sounds a good prospect. Put the idea to your focus group. Go for it!”

“I'll judge the mood of the meeting. I don't know who'll chair it. That might be crucial.”

Sally seemed to lose interest at that point and the conversation drifted into general university chit-chat. After a while she said, “Shan't be a minute, just going to repair my face. Look, are you doing anything for an hour? I have to find a suitable dress for a function. Stuart wants me to look the part and I'd value the comments of a male.” His left knee, regrettably, became untrapped and she wafted away.

Bliss, he would have her company for another hour. Re-festooned with parcels, Simon began a short tour of exotic little boutiques he would never normally have noticed. She took his arm en route and gave the impression of being protected from the attentions of any passing thug. At one shop he sat at a little corner table with a pot of tea. She flitted in and out between curtains in a succession of creations. “What do think of this? How would that appear at a semi-formal dinner? Do you feel this is too…?” He tried to be helpful and imaginative in his assessments. But he felt she was sensational in everything.

She settled on what he would have described as a flimsy black bodice with no shoulders to it, held up by thin straps that met behind her neck. He helped with the last inch of the zip in the middle of her back. Sally glided to and fro in a corner with three mirrors at angles. He perspired and experienced familiar stirrings. God, it was like attending a personal strip show, delightful but embarrassing. Fortunately, she bought it and ended the performance. He heard the manageress say, “Two hundred and fifty pounds.” Sally emerged from the curtains dressed in street clothes and shared his burden by carrying the new parcel as they strolled back along the busy concourse.

“Where's your car, Sally?”

“I came by taxi.”

“Can I give you a ride home?”

“Lovely, can you spare the time?” They synchronised movements and stepped side by side onto the ‘down' escalator.

“Of course, you only live ten minutes from me and it's a pleasure.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. A strange thing happened. Simon looked across at the ‘up' escalator and saw Luke Nweewe passing. Although he'd obviously seen them he gave no sign. Sally appeared oblivious. Perhaps she didn't know him? Perhaps Luke thought that he, Simon, was having an illicit assignation and, thus, sparing him the embarrassment of recognition? The moment passed.

The parcels just about filled the back seat. She fitted comfortably into the front. Simon went around and entered as usual by stepping over the side. He reached across to the glove box and gave her a headscarf. Sally smiled sweetly, knotted the scarf under her chin and clipped home the seat belt. His eyes dropped to the belt and continued near to the limits of their sockets. Her dress had ridden up to a point where it showed lots of smooth black stocking and sheer temptation. She sat a few seconds; it seemed like half an hour, raised her bottom from the seat and pulled the dress back to respectability. Her expression remained absolutely neutral. He turned the key, engaged first gear and roared off to the down ramp. He clenched the wheel tightly, not so much to ensure the line of direction as to stop his hands shaking.

Fifteen minutes later they turned into the VC's drive and rolled up to the front door. He wondered if anyone was at home. He needn't have bothered. The parting was brief.

“Don't get out Simon, I can manage. I enjoyed our encounter very much. Thanks for lunch and for your help afterwards.”

“Th-thanks for your company,” he stammered inanely.

She leaned across, brushed her lips across his and stepped smartly out. She managed all the bags and baggage surprisingly easily, climbed the steps and passed out of sight. Simon turned back down the drive and prepared to give the old MGB absolute hell. Behind him at an upper window the curtain gave the briefest of twitches.