It Had to Be You (6 page)

One of them had to say something pretty quickly, or this conversation was going to be a disaster.

If only she was there. If only he could kiss that small, slightly pouty, deeply sexy mouth. If only they didn’t need words. For this emotional situation, there were no words.

‘Can you come over?’ she asked.

‘Darling, I’d love to see you, of course, God, I long …’ to unroll your tights and kiss your slender thighs, to fondle your pert little breasts, to gently bite your stiff nipples, ‘… to see you. But … it’s not possible tonight. I have phone calls to make. It’s just not possible.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘I think tomorrow’s going to be very difficult too, sweetheart.’ He began to tell her all the things he would have to do tomorrow. The thought of them all, at the end of this long day, exhausted him. He was going to yawn. No. No. He mustn’t.

‘I do so want to see you, darling, but you must see that it’s difficult.’

‘Oh, I do. I do. It’s just … it seems a shame. I want to help you through this.’

‘And I want your help. It’s just …’

It’s just that there’s no acceptable formula for appropriate social behaviour in such circumstances. Couldn’t say that.

‘Look. You finish at lunchtime, don’t you, Fridays? Let’s … I know. I’ll meet you for afternoon tea at Whistler’s Hotel.’

That wouldn’t be too dangerous if somebody saw them. He could take a folder with him and put it on the end of the table, ready to pretend to be discussing business in the unlikely event of anybody he knew being in that slightly raffish hotel.

‘Afternoon tea?’

‘Well, yes. It seems … I don’t know … appropriate.’

‘Well, OK. Yes. Fine. Oh, James.’

So many things in that ‘Oh, James.’ Shock. Sympathy. Amazement. Hope. Frustration. Love. Fear. Desire. Self-doubt. Sorrow too, because she was not a cruel person. So many things, and he could sense them all.

‘Whistler’s at four, then, Friday.’

The light was fading. Wispy clouds were floating very slowly across the sky. They were tinged with subtle colours, mauves and pale yellows and salmon that matched the walls of the spare bedroom. In the north-west the sky was beginning to darken to a fiery red. Islington glowed. Three small boys, normal bedtime suspended, were kicking a football among the parked Audis as they drifted homewards. How could everything be so normal, and so beautiful, on this of all days? He took a large gulp of his drink. He needed it.

It was past ten o’clock now, too early to phone Max and too late to phone anybody else. He realised that he was very hungry. He went to the fridge-freezer, Deborah’s pride and joy – Deborah! Oh, God. He would never see her again.

There were so many bits of things in the fridge section. Delicious leftovers hidden under foil and cling film. He couldn’t cope, couldn’t choose.

He raised his glass to his lips and found that it was empty. He pressed the glass against the fridge freezer and it filled with an avalanche of ice. No. He mustn’t. There was Max to ring.

He dropped the ice into the Belfast sink in the crowded utility room – my God, he’d have to learn to use the washer and the dryer. And the ironing board. He could take things round to Helen but was she an ironer? She didn’t look like an ironer. Five years, five years of sex, and so much he didn’t know about her.

He uncorked a bottle of Brouilly. Well, it was less dangerous than spirits.

He opened a tin of tomato soup, heated it rapidly, began to eat it eagerly. Lovely. There was something in it, some secret ingredient, that made the thought of it irresistible to men. Halfway through, as always, it began to disgust him. He struggled on for a bit, then poured water into the soup to weaken the mixture, and poured it down the sink.

Sardines. He had a craving for sardines. A bit strong for the Brouilly, but this wasn’t an evening for purists.

Halfway through the tin he suddenly felt absolutely disgusted by the taste of tinned sardines. He chucked the tin into the elegantly concealed waste bin.

He began to feel very uncomfortable in the kitchen. It was Deborah’s room, friendly, lived-in, foody, attractive but unpretentious and rather higgledy-piggledy.

He remembered that there was a box of chocolates in the living room. It was up to him to finish them now.

No need now to defer to Deborah’s wants. He chose the marzipan one from both levels, chewed them greedily, not popping them into his mouth whole as Deborah insisted. Manners hardly mattered now.

Half a tin of tomato soup, half a tin of sardines, two chocolates filled with marzipan. It was not the best three-course meal he had ever eaten.

He went to the phone. He would ring Helen, go straight round, fuck her most tremendously.

He dialled her number, then put the phone down hurriedly.

He decided to make a list of everything he had to do tomorrow. That calmed him. That brought a bit of instant order into his life.

He sat at the mahogany table in the small dining room with the burgundy walls which were just a little darker than the Brouilly, and there, where they had hosted so many little dinner parties over the years, he began his list.

Oh, sod it. Do it tomorrow.

He dropped the list into the waste bin.

He switched the television on, flicked though the channels, saw a pathologist cutting out the left eye of a middle-aged man and dropping it into a bottle, a panellist in a panic as he thought of the ridicule he was going to get from his workmates after he’d failed to name the capital of Hungary, a C-list fashion designer eating leeches in a mangrove swamp, an audience roaring as an overpaid chat show host held out a box of chocolates to a pretty actress and said, ‘Can I give you one?’, a pathologist cutting up a pretty girl, a celebrity chef cutting up a bulb of fennel, blood pouring from the stomach of a woman in a crypt, an ugly twenty-two-stone man with a horrendous paunch throwing a dart at a board, a lion eating a cheetah, a pathologist cutting up a gay young man, a manly Rock Hudson trying to seduce a virginal Doris Day, a pathologist cutting up a very obese man, a celebrity chef cutting up a loin of pork, and two sloths copulating very … well … slothfully.

He switched off, poured himself another glass of Brouilly, went to the waste bin, rescued his list, went back to the dining room, stretched the list out on the kitchen table, trying to iron it with his hands, added one more name, Mike … Oh God, should he invite Mike, how would he behave? … He began to think about Mike, once his best friend, now a wreck. Memories of happier times with Mike. Lots of drinking. He took a couple more sips of the Brouilly. His head dropped.

He woke suddenly, to find himself face down on a crumpled piece of paper covered in traces of tomato soup and sardine oil. He had no idea where he was. At first he felt that Deborah’s death was part of a dream. Then he was wide awake and standing up and knocking his red wine all over the carpet.

‘Oh, shit,’ he shouted to nobody.

What did you put on red wine? White wine? Salt? Lavatory paper? He tore off some toilet rolls and stamped around on them, watching them go red. Then he remembered that Deborah had some stuff that worked wonders. He rummaged around under the sink, found the stuff, stood up, bashed his head on the edge of the cupboard door, swore violently to the empty room, and worked away on the stain, with moderate success.

Max. He was supposed to be ringing Max.

He felt as though he had been asleep for several hours, but it was only twenty to twelve. He dialled his son’s mobile number very carefully, feeling dismayingly drunk.

‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

He’d never get used to phones that showed you who was ringing. He didn’t like them. It cut into the preliminaries, the careful approach to difficult subjects. He was thrown by Max’s cheeriness. How could he destroy that carefree youthful happiness? He felt about a hundred and five.

‘I’m fine, Max. Bit drunk …’ get that in before Max did, ‘… but fine.’

‘Great to hear from you, Dad.’

‘Not really.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got some terribly bad news, Max. It’s your mum. She’s …’

He couldn’t say the word.

‘What? Not…?’

Max couldn’t say the word either.

‘She was in a very bad car crash, Max. I’m afraid … I’m afraid she was killed.’

‘No!’

James shuddered. He had fantasised about something that could cause his son such grief. In that moment he realised just how much he loved Max.

‘I’m afraid so, Max. Max, at least it was instant. She didn’t suffer.’

But Max was clearly too shocked, too bereft, to even care about that at that moment, and as he heard the sorrow of his distant son, James felt real sorrow too. He told Max a few more details. By now the driver of the Porsche was a homicidal villain. They needed a villain, father and son, separated by thousands of miles.

James told Max about his conversation with Chuck, but he could tell that his long-lost sister hardly registered in the ghastly slipstream of his mother’s death. Max was in deep shock. He told Max who he’d rung (omitting Helen) and Max wasn’t interested. He asked Max if there was anyone he’d like him to ring, and he was too numb to care.

‘So when’s the funeral?’ he asked eventually.

‘I don’t know. Rather dependent on when you can come.’

‘I’ll phone Mr Jellico tonight, and then I’ll check the airlines. Oh, Dad, I can’t believe this. Not Mum.’

‘I know. If anyone was indestructible, it was her.’

‘Dad?’ Suddenly Max sounded young, younger than his twenty-two years. Suddenly he sounded like a boy who needed his father. ‘I’ve got some leave owing. I could stay a bit after the funeral. Like a week maybe.’

A week. A whole week with Max. James felt dismayed. He felt dismayed that there would be a whole week in which it would be very hard, even downright dangerous, to see Helen. He felt dismayed that his behaviour, his desire, his love had led him into becoming a man who was dismayed at the thought of his son’s staying for a week.

‘A week. That would be wonderful, Max. That would be simply great.’

James was beginning to realise that things were not going to be as easy as he had thought. If only life was a fantasy.

The alarm woke James at half past seven, as usual. He woke slowly, and from a long way off. His head was heavy. His sleep had been deep but troubled.

He turned to face Deborah, reached out with his right hand to stroke the ample curve of her admired and envied buttocks, very very gently, so gently that he wouldn’t wake her if she was fast asleep, but would stimulate her to a faint moan of yawned pleasure if she was sleeping lightly, and, if she was already awake, would reassure her that he was still fond of her, even though he was no longer interested in the glories that had once banished all thoughts of early-morning tea from the first minutes of the day.

There were no curves. There were no buttocks. His arm felt only space, and suddenly all the events of the day before came flooding back. His head was heavy because he had drunk too much, and because he had taken a temazepam tablet when sleep wouldn’t come, when the empty bed that he had dreamt about had been more than he could bear.

Philip had said that he would ring at eight. He hoped he would. He would ask him to come and help. He couldn’t face everything that had to be done without some form of support. And Philip was easy, reliable, calm, methodical. In his adoration and admiration of Charles he sometimes forgot how much he liked Philip.

He took a shower, and washed his hair, removing any traces of tomato soup and sardine oil that he might have picked up when he’d fallen asleep on his list.

If only he could just leave, just pack a suitcase and go to Helen’s.

He looked out of the window. It was another stunning Wimbledon and barbecue day, so beautiful even in Islington, so inappropriate. A faint residue of mist softened the sunlight.

He shaved, cleaned his teeth; his gums were bleeding, it was the tension, but he must check to see if he’d remembered to make another appointment at the hygienist’s.

He dressed for work, remembered that he wasn’t going to work, took off his suit and put on jeans and a denim shirt, decided they weren’t respectable enough or sad enough, took them off and was naked except for his purple pants when Philip rang.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Well, you know.’

‘I can imagine. James, would you like me to come over?’

‘Do you know, Philip, I really would. Can you? Is it all right?’

‘No problem. My statistics will all still be there tomorrow, and I’m pretty much my own boss, you know.’

‘There’s such a lot to do and I think I’m still in shock.’

‘You will be. You must be.’

Yes, I must, thought James. Even if I’m not, and I’m not sure if I am, I must seem to be. God, this is going to be hard.

He selected a pair of black trousers and a dark blue shirt. With a black belt and black shoes he would look sad and dignified without actually looking as though he was in mourning.

It dawned on him that Helen might ring while Philip was there. For years she had been unable to ring him at his home. It had upset her occasionally, although most of the time she had accepted it as sensible and inevitable. Today she would feel that she could ring, and so she would. It would be a defining moment for her. How awful it would be if she did.

He started to put on his shirt and then stopped. He was almost naked, it was early morning, it wouldn’t be so terrible, this morning, to phone her in the altogether.

He took off his shirt and his purple pants, picked up the cordless phone, and went into the spare bedroom, far from prying photographs. He sat on the bed and dialled.

Her voice was sleepy.

‘You’ve woken me up.’

It was a rebuke.

‘You know I don’t work Thursday mornings.’

Helen and her friend Fiona ran a smart little dress shop in Chelsea. It was quiet enough for them to take it in turns to attend, except on Saturdays. James thought they were playing at it, and had been unwise enough to say so once. It was not a thing you would say twice.

‘Sorry, darling, but I needed to speak to you.’ He amended the sentence hurriedly. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

‘That’s nice.’

She was mollified. He breathed a sigh of relief. He began to be glad that he had taken his pants off. Things would have been tight.

‘Are you naked?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, James. Oh, James, my darling. Are you…?’

‘Very. Oh, Helen.’

Her pouty mouth. Her pert breasts. Her slim arms. Her disturbingly neat bottom. Her pale soft skin. Her wide green eyes.

‘Oh, Helen. Oh, my God.’

It was so quick. Absurdly quick. Fierce, painful, glorious, uncontrollable yet perfectly synchronised.

‘God, that was good. Oh, Helen darling, you are so unbelievably lovely, my darling. Um …’ The gear change was going to be difficult, very difficult. ‘Um … well, I’d better get dressed, I suppose. My brother Philip’s coming round to help. There’s such a lot to do.’

‘Poor you. I wish I could be with you.’

‘I know. So do I. Um … the … um … the thing is, Helen … oh, God, I wish you could be with me, but the thing is …’ Oh, Lord, this was difficult. ‘The thing is … I thought maybe you might phone me today, but Philip’s going to be here and … um … it could be awkward … a bit.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Is that why you rang?’

‘No. Well, I mean … no, I really wanted to … you know … what we did … but yes, I knew I had to talk to you about this. Obviously Philip doesn’t know anything about us, and it would be very hard to explain.’

‘I understand.’

‘But you’re not happy. I can tell you’re not happy.’

‘Well … I do understand, James. I can see the difficulties. It’s just … nothing’s changed.’

‘It’s early days. I want these next days to be dignified in memory of Deborah. She deserves that.’

‘I know. I agree. I never wanted to hurt her, James. You know that. That’s why I accepted … everything. But now … well, it’s a bit galling to find that nothing has changed.’

‘Everything’s changed. I want to marry you and live the rest of my life with you and soon I’ll be able to. We just have to be patient.’

‘I know. I know you’re right. I know how dreadfully difficult this is for you. I really do, darling. It’s just that I’ve been patient for so long. And now …’

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, over tea.’

‘Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

From her repetition of his words he sensed how vulnerable she felt.

‘Bye, James.’

From the abrupt way she rang off he knew that she had been about to cry.

He couldn’t cry. He just felt … flat. Flat, in his situation? He shook his head in disbelief at himself.

His first phone call, and already he was exhausted.

He opened the window of the spare bedroom, for fear that Philip would detect a faint odour of semen. In came the smell of heat, grass and petrol.

He took another shower, then went back into the master bedroom, tried not to look at the smiling photo of Deborah on the dressing table, kissed the photo of a fourteen-year-old Charlotte, and dressed.

He made himself his usual breakfast: two slices of toast which he cut into halves and covered with spreadable butter on its own, or marmalade, or honey, in a different order every day, lest he should feel that he was becoming a creature of habit. The order this morning was marmalade (Seville orange), butter, honey, and marmalade again (three-fruit).

At ten past nine – give her time in case she was a few minutes late and punctuality wasn’t one of her virtues, but come to think of it, what were her virtues? – he phoned Marcia.

‘It’s me. Marcia, I’m not coming in today.’

‘Crikey. Are you ill?’

‘No. Marcia, you remember that police message.’

‘I remember. The one I almost forgot and then remembered.’

A feeling of dread shuddered through his body, dread of all the sympathy he was going to get, from Marcia, from everyone at Globpack UK, from his friends, from his fitness trainer, from his acupuncturist. Sympathy and pity.

‘It was to tell me … Deborah’s been killed.’

‘What??? Oh no!! James! Oh, James!! Oh, that’s … awful!! That’s … terrible!!!’

There were a lot of exclamation marks in Marcia’s young life.

‘How?’

‘Car crash. Head on.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose … Oh, God, though.’

‘Yes.’

Through it all he went. How many times was he going to have to go through all this today?

‘Oh, James, I am so very, very sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Well, tell everybody who needs to know.’

‘I sort of meant … is there anything personal? I mean … this evening, for instance. I don’t like to think of you all alone.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Marcia.’ Oh, give me strength. ‘But my brother’s going to be here.’ Philip would have long gone, no doubt, but there was no need to add that.

‘The concert pianist?’

‘The other one.’

‘Well, that’s all right, then. I … p’r’aps I shouldn’t say this but I … you’re more than a boss to me, Mr Hollinghurst, and I …’

Oh, no. Oh, suffering serpents and suppurating sores, this was terrible. Interrupt, quickly. No time to lose.

‘Thank you, Marcia. That’s very sweet of you.’

Thank God, the doorbell. His sweet sweet friend the doorbell.

‘Philip’s here. I’ve got to go.’

A gust of brotherly love disturbed the still, windless morning. ‘The other one.’ Poor Philip, clever scientist, esteemed statistician, conducting vital research into climate change, a nobody in celebrity Britain.

They hugged. James always hugged Charles, you had to, Charles was a hugger, but he didn’t remember Philip ever hugging him before.

James and Charles had broad, almost round faces from their mother. Philip had his father’s long, narrow, slightly beaky face. It was a face that suggested that he might also have his father’s caustic tongue. It was not a relaxing face. But Philip was kind and much more easy-going than he looked. James felt so very pleased that he was there. Philip met his eyes, shook his head as if to rid himself of the bad news, and looked away.

‘The accident’s made the nationals,’ he said, and he handed James a paper. ‘Page seven.’

‘
Tragic death of joy-ride war hero
,’ read James. What?

‘Craig Wilson came back to England from Afghanistan just three days ago, delighted to be alive after seeing two of his friends killed in Helmand Province.’
Oh, no.
‘Now he too is dead, killed in a head-on car crash in a borrowed Porsche on the A143 near Diss.

‘The driver of the other car, a 46-year-old woman, also died.

‘“I feel so guilty,” said Craig’s best friend, local skip magnate Ben Postgate (30) yesterday. “There hasn’t been much joy in his life recently, and I lent him my Porsche for a joy ride. He was all properly insured and stuff, and he was a very good driver, but I think the fun of it, after what he’d been through, must have gone to his head. I keep saying to myself, “Oh, if only I hadn’t.”

‘“Craig was a brave committed soldier and a thoroughly nice lad who had a great life in front of him,” commented his commanding officer, Colonel Brian McIntyre. “We’re all devastated.”’

James shared a grimace with Philip.

‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘All Deborah’s vitality, her beauty, her kindness, her energy, all described as “
the driver of the other car
”.’ He wasn’t aware that he was sometimes called ‘the other brother’. ‘Upstaged in death. Mind you, she had no shred of pomposity or self-importance. She wouldn’t have minded.’

‘No. A fitting obituary, then, perhaps.’

James didn’t tell Philip why he had been grimacing. He had lost his villain. He no longer had anybody to blame.

He gave Philip a list of tasks. Look on the web for information about funeral directors in Islington and how much they cost. Look for any comment pages, if there were such things.
First-rate service. Will definitely use them next time
.
Snotty-nosed, supercilious and extortionate. Wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole
. Find a vicar. How did you do that? Look up ‘Vicars’ in Yellow Pages? Use the web again. Vicars, Islington, search. Try to begin to fix the date of the funeral. Try to avoid Tuesday and Wednesday, Charles wouldn’t be able to make it. Make morning coffee. Make lunch. Answer phone and door as required.

‘I so appreciate this, Philip.’

‘No probs.’

He left Philip indoors with the land line, got his mobile, went out into the garden, sat on the white William Morris chair Deborah had picked up in a little shop in Winchcombe, placed his address book and a glass of chilled water on the cast-iron table she had spotted in Much Wenlock, wondered briefly if there was one single thing in the whole house and garden, except stains, for which he was responsible.

He looked round the garden, delaying the moment when he would have to begin. It was broken up into little gravelled areas and small, irregular flower beds, which cleverly hid its narrowness and its uninspiring rectangular shape. There were cyclamens and lilies and attractive green ferns whose names he couldn’t remember. The smell from the pots of lavender brought back memories of lunches taken outdoors in weather such as this. The passiflora growing up the back wall was in full flower. Giant grasses were used as windbreaks. And all this, the ingenuity, the elegance, the restraint, had all been created by Deborah.

He sat in the middle of this living memorial to her artistry, and he felt awkward and ashamed. He sensed that he was about to miss her deeply, and so, in the end, he picked up the telephone almost eagerly.

And began.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can.’

Stanley Hollinghurst, James’s uncle, his father’s brother, talked to himself quite a lot now. He didn’t care. Charles had once pointed it out, and that evening he had caught himself saying, ‘So, you’re talking to yourself, are you? Well, Charles, you’re wrong. It isn’t the first sign of madness. It’s the first sign that there are sod all other people to talk to. It’s all right for you, you’re surrounded by people, you complacent young fool, but I talk to myself because it’s someone to listen to, all right?’ And then the humour of his talking to himself about his habit of talking to himself had struck him, and he’d laughed till his teeth came out.