It Had to Be You (20 page)

He’d succeeded. He’d fancied Jane because in those first moments it was exciting and glamorous to be with her. He’d fancied her because he’d fancied her long ago. He’d fancied her because she had long legs, great breasts, a wide mouth, and fine hair, as black and thick as his but softer and less rebellious.

His words, his spelling out of his disapproval, had begun to cut through his desire. Her admission – well, she didn’t see it as an admission – that she had ‘lost all interest in that kind of thing’ had stamped on several small fires. When a woman says that she isn’t interested in sex, it can be a challenge to a man, but it can also be a sign that he’s wasting his time.

James, who was often very honest with himself, also reflected on the fact that an element in the cooling of his desire was his hurt pride. The revelation that Jane had fancied him for his naivety and shyness had not sent bold, brave messages to his sperm cells.

The thrill had all gone already. He’d noticed, even as she walked towards him, that her legs, though long, were charmless. They widened as if by some mathematical principle. They were severe. Her features, too, were perfect but without character. Her mouth was wide, but her lips were thin and ungiving. Already, after an hour, he was tired of her. There was no pleasure to be had from or with her. This came as an enormous relief, but also – for what real man does not have a streak of perversity in his make-up? – as a real disappointment. James felt that he was left with a scene that had ended halfway through. It had been too early to confess, and now already it was too late. There was no point in whispering intimate secrets to this woman in this restaurant. He might as well shout them to a brick wall. The meal was now like the last, dead match in Davis Cup tennis, which often featured reserve players once the result had been decided. How James wished that there was another James in reserve, to finish his meal for him, and keep Jane company, and share the bill.

It was almost too late to ask his final question, but it had to be done.

‘You said that the newspaper reports were very inaccurate. You said Ed’s body wasn’t in the Ouse. Where was it?’

The answer was the one he didn’t want, but the one he had known it would be.

‘An obscure little thing called the Peckover Drain.’

The Reverend Martin Vigar had sparse hair which he had carefully combed to cover as much of his pate as possible. He was very tall, and walked with the slight stoop of a man who doesn’t want to intimidate his fellow mortals.

James couldn’t believe that he was so pleased to welcome a vicar to his home. But then anything that took his mind off the evening to come was welcome.

In fact the vicar fascinated him. When, on being offered a cup of tea, he replied, ‘That would be quite delightful. “The cup that cheers,”’ and, ‘No, no, no sugar thank you, I’m sweet enough already,’ he was every inch a vicar and as arch as a bishop. But, when they went into the living room and he got a wad of A4 and a ballpoint pen out of his briefcase his voice lost its trace of sing-song, and developed a hint of North Kent, and his businesslike manner led James to expect that at any moment he would say, ‘Now, life insurance. Are you adequately covered?’ This prompted him to say, ‘Quite a change of career you’ve had,’ to which the vicar replied, with a smile, ‘Yes. Straight from Mammon to God.’

‘Did you … you know … get a sudden call … as it were?’

The Reverend Martin Vigar gave a self-deprecating smile.

‘Nothing as dramatic as a call,’ he said. ‘More of a whisper in my ear. I suppose, increasingly, over the years, I began to feel the need for a meaning to life, and particularly to my life.’

‘And have you found that meaning?’

The vicar hesitated.

‘It isn’t as clear-cut as that,’ he said. ‘I am finding it. It is a process, a long process, not always an easy process.’ He turned suddenly grave. ‘I’m so sorry that my first visit to your lovely home should be for such a sad reason.’

‘Thank you.’

He produced a sheet of paper and handed it to James, and again, it felt as though it would be a quote for insurance.

‘The order of service. I think it’s as agreed, but I thought we should check before it “goes to print”.’

James looked through it carefully.

‘Yes. That’s fine.’

An imp in his head almost prompted him to add, ‘I’ll pay by direct debit, I presume,’ but he resisted it.

‘I had a very good talk with your brother Philip. He seemed a very nice man.’

‘He’s great.’

‘That is so good to hear in this time of crisis for “the family”.’

James was beginning to realise that there were a lot of inverted commas in the vicar’s life.

‘He emphasised that you are not in essence a religious family.’

James was careful not to fall into his catchphrase, not to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ He felt very strongly that this was nothing to apologise for.

‘No, we’re not. In fact, I’ll be honest with you, after we’d arranged all the details I wondered if we should have gone for a humanist service.’

‘Ah. Yes. The woodland burial route. Well, let me reassure you, Mr Hollinghurst. This will be a Christian funeral service, but it will not be pious. It will be, if I may put it like that, “soft on God”. Very low church. Very C of E, you might say. In my eulogy I will touch upon the message of eternal life, but I won’t “rub it in”.’

‘Thank you. It sounds as if it’ll be “just the ticket”.’

No, James. Restrain the imp.

‘We have a very good faith school round the corner from the church, and a lot of parents come to my services purely to get their children qualified for entry. I know that, and they know that I know it. I don’t like it, it’s not what I left Allied Dunbar for, but I live with it, and it does mean that I know how not to “over-egg the pudding”.’

‘Well … good … thank you. That sounds … just right.’

‘So, the eulogy. That is, I presume, the lady in question on the pianoforte.’

‘It is.’

‘She was beautiful. Truly beautiful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You must be devastated.’

Yes, I must. Go away, imp!

‘Yes.’

‘This is never easy, and I know you are going to give “that personal touch”, but I wish not to sound too remote, that can be so very depressing. I was at a service once where the vicar said, “We can only imagine all the kind and thoughtful acts that he made in his life, being nice to waiters, stopping the car to let little old ladies cross the road,” and his widow interrupted, “He didn’t drive.” So embarrassing.’

‘Deborah did drive, and she drove fast.’

‘Perhaps that is something that, in view of the manner of her death, we should skate over.’

‘True.’ James approached three words that he would find difficult to utter with a straight face. That imp again. ‘More tea, vicar?’

‘Do you know, that would be most welcome. I always think of myself as a “one-cup man”, but these interviews are never easy, and the throat is dry.’

While he was pouring the tea, James was desperately trying to think of tales about Deborah that would illustrate her qualities and would be suitable to relate at a funeral, but all he could think about was the Peckover Drain. A suitable epitaph for Ed, perhaps, but a strong indication that Mike had murdered him. Mike had denied that they had caught perch in ‘the something drain, picturesque Dickensian name’. He had denied all knowledge of it. Why should he have denied this if the drain didn’t have a sinister connotation for him?

He realised that the Reverend Martin Vigar was speaking.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’ Round about a hundred miles, probably.

‘I understand. It’s a difficult time for you. No, I was just saying that I’m not so much looking for those amusing anecdotes that always sound slightly forced in the mouth of a vicar. I just want to get things right.’

James pulled himself together and began to talk about Deborah’s family, her time on the farm, her love of riding, her education, her first-class degree, her fine mind, their first meeting in the stifling dry heat of dusty Malta (leaving out her trips along the corridor to his bedroom). He spoke of the early days of parenthood, of the family holidays, of how perfect a son Max had been, irritatingly so to Charlotte sometimes, in the days before she walked out.

He told the vicar how Charlotte had disappeared without trace for more than three years before she made that one phone call to say that she was all right. He didn’t think he could have told of these things if he hadn’t been in touch with Charlotte again, and even now he could barely speak of them without breaking down. There was a crack in his voice, he was on the edge of an emotional precipice, and he wasn’t helped by the hugely solemn face the vicar suddenly put on as he began these revelations.

He talked about his hope that Charlotte might come to the funeral.

‘Her boyfriend, Chuck—’

‘Chuck?’

‘I know. I know … hopes to be able to persuade her to come.’

‘Ah. Perhaps I ought to know whether she is there. Perhaps, right at the beginning of the service, I could give you a look, and you could give me a little nod or shake of the head, and, if it’s a nod, perhaps also give some indication of where she is sitting.’

‘No. I think that could be disastrous. I just wanted you to know, but I think it has to be absolutely low key. It’s very sensitive. She’s very sensitive.’

The Reverend Martin Vigar looked as if he felt thwarted of a potential big moment, but he agreed.

‘As you wish.’

James continued his tale of Deborah, her love of the art gallery where she had worked five half-days a week for more than ten years, of her eye for a picture, of the fact that she found some beautiful object that she just had to buy almost everywhere she went. ‘She could go to a car boot sale in Swindon and come back with something by Fabergé that some ignoramus was selling for fifty pee.’

‘Excellent, but I won’t use the word “ignoramus” if you don’t mind. In God’s eyes there are no ignoramuses, or should that be ignorami?’

‘Well, actually it was my word. She would never use it. She had in abundance what is sometimes called Christian charity although I think the adjective is often entirely inappropriate.’

As he continued to talk of Deborah’s many virtues, James again began to feel that he was on the verge of breaking into tears. Ever since she had died he had wanted to cry for her, he had been shamed by his inability to do so. Now he was having to fight his tears off.

There was no way he was going to break down in the presence of the Reverend Martin Vigar.

As he walked slowly up the stairs to Helen’s apartment, James’s heart was beating like a hummingbird’s.

The evening sun was no longer shining through the double doors that led in from the street. The dull stained glass and the dark purple carpet gave the stairway an ecclesiastical gloom which did nothing for his peace of mind.

He knocked thinly, reluctantly on her door, and then ran a hand through his rebellious hair. He caught himself doing so and hurriedly took the hand away, even though he had only been doing it out of habit and not because he really cared about his appearance at this dreadful moment. Deborah had once told him that this habit was the most futile of all his futile gestures. As soon as he had finished, his hair always went back to wherever it wanted to be at the time.

The door opened, and there she was, pale and perfectly formed. They kissed each other on both cheeks. They always began with this formality, so it won him a brief moment before their world crashed.

‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Did I hear correctly? Did James Hollinghurst actually refuse a drink?’

‘Yes, I … I …’

‘James! What’s wrong?’

‘I … I … I’m afraid this is the …’ His throat was parched. He could hardly get the words out. ‘I’m afraid I …’ To blurt it out like this seemed so insensitive, so cruel, so crass, but he felt that if he didn’t he might lose his nerve and wouldn’t be able to say it at all. ‘I’m afraid I … can’t carry on with this relationship any more, Helen. It’s over.’

‘What?’

There was no anger yet, just disbelief. She simply couldn’t take in what she was hearing.

‘What’s happened, James?’

‘Nothing’s happened. I …’ I just don’t love you any more. He couldn’t utter those words. They were too cruel. ‘I don’t know how to put it. I find that I just … can’t carry on. That’s all.’

‘All? All? You bastard!’

‘I don’t think I can argue with that description.’

‘It’s fucking Deborah, isn’t it, and your fucking guilt? That’s right. Frown. You don’t like women swearing, so unladylike. You’re pathetic, James. You’ve just climbed out of the primeval swamp.’

‘Helen, I can hardly protest about your swearing tonight. I don’t blame you.’

‘You don’t like my using the F-word in connection with the precious Deborah, though, do you?’

She came at him then, began raining blows on his chest with her fists. Then she reached towards his face and he turned his face away from her.

‘You’re frightened. No, you’re not. You’re turning away because you’re terrified I’ll mark your face, and everyone will see, and they’ll know we’ve been having a row, and then they’ll know that there’s an us to have a row, and it’ll all come out.’

She was still hitting him, and he was still cowering.

‘Two black eyes. That’d ruin the dignity of the memory of bloody Deborah’s death, wouldn’t it?’

She stopped hitting him then. She flung herself on the chaise longue and burst into tears.

‘All those cheap hotels in Bridgend and Kilmarnock. All those secrets. All those lies. And I never complained. Not once. And now this. Thrown over. Tossed aside. Why? Because you never loved me. You loved having a mistress. You loved having a secret. It made your grotty little life in packaging seem interesting.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ He wanted to say, I loved you, but he couldn’t bring himself to use the word in the past tense, it sounded so bare.

‘It was exciting when I was the forbidden fruit, but when there was the prospect of my being in a bowl in the centre of the dining-room table every day, it was a different matter.’