It Had to Be You (9 page)

Amanda would round up as many girls as she could. Philip would contact his four children (two of each). Charles was childless. That was about it – for the moment, at any rate. It was enough. How many more times could he describe that wretched accident?

He would start making the calls again soon, but for the moment he was done in. A dreadful feeling was creeping up on him, a debilitating unease that was grabbing him by the throat and making him feel trapped, claustrophobic, as if the garden was a cage in a zoo.

The best of the whole bunch. Lady Deborah. So very special. The only woman over thirty that Callum had ever fancied. The most wonderful woman that Jen Preston had ever met. A light went out of the world yesterday morning.

Was he the only person in the whole world who had forgotten how to appreciate her?

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 curves of her admired and envied buttocks.

There were no curves. There were no buttocks. His arm felt only space, and suddenly all the events of the last two days 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.

A sickening thud of memory struck him, just as he was summoning up the strength to get out of bed. Today he would have to sack Marcia.

The phone rang while he was in the middle of shaving. He knew it was his mother. The tone was shrill with motherhood. He would have to answer.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, Mum. I’m fine. Just shaving.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘No, no, it’s all right.’

‘I was a bit worried when you didn’t phone yesterday. I thought you would have done. Charles phoned from … somewhere, it was raining. Philip phoned. He said you’d probably phone later.’

Yes. It entirely slipped my mind.

‘I know. I meant to, but the phone kept going, and then Philip came round to take me out to dinner.’

‘I know. He told me he was going to. He’s very kind. He’s always been kind. He’s reserved but actually he’s very warm-hearted.’

‘I know that, Mum.’

The subtext was, You might try taking a leaf out of his book.

‘He really appreciated everything Deborah did for you.’

‘I know that, Mum.’

The subtext was, You didn’t, always, not sufficiently, anyway.

‘You could always have rung me, Mum.’

‘I can’t hear you, James. You’re speaking very quietly.’

‘Sorry. I’m holding the phone a bit away from me, so that it doesn’t get smothered in shaving cream.’

‘Is it the almond one I gave you for Christmas? That makes a good lather, the man said.’

No, I haven’t got round to that yet. I find the smell of almond in the morning vaguely sickening.

‘Yes. It’s lovely. Mum, I have to get ready for work, I’ll ring you when I get there.’

‘Your father used to sack people if they made too many personal calls.’

The subtext was, You be careful now. I can’t believe that the least talented of my three sons can be secure in his employment. The sack now would just put the tin lid on it.

‘I am the boss, you know, Mum.’

‘Yes, but Americans are sticklers for the rules.’

The subtext was, Of the London office, yes, but you aren’t the boss globally, are you?

Why on earth had he told her that?

He chose a pair of green underpants that Helen had once said she liked. Not that tea at Whistler’s Hotel was likely to lead on to a sight of his underpants, it wasn’t the time, it was too soon, but you never knew. After much hesitation he plumped for a striped shirt full of reds and purples. It wouldn’t look good with a tie, but when he took the tie off and went for tea he wouldn’t look as if he had just come from work. He also chose the least stuffy of his many dark suits.

After a quick breakfast – honey first, today, then spreadable butter only, then marmalade (three fruits) and finally marmalade (Seville orange thick-cut, not to be confused with the other Seville orange one that he’d chosen yesterday) – he walked briskly to his car. The glory of the morning gave him no pleasure. It was dreadful to have to attempt to sack a pretty young woman on such a morning.

He set off on his tortuous journey across London to Globpack UK. As he drove he thought about his meal with Philip last night. They had reminisced about their childhood in a way they had never done before, as if the shock of Deborah’s death had unlocked their tongues. When James had said that he was beginning to find their mother deeply irritating, Philip had reminded him how often she had protected them from their father’s wrath. ‘She’s beginning to be difficult because she’s starting to panic about old age, that’s all.’

James had been surprised to find how strongly Philip had also felt that in his parents’ eyes he had been a disappointment compared to Charles.

‘Well, if that’s so, since I was a disappointment compared to you, think how much of a disappointment I was compared to Charles. I think they may have stopped after me because they feared the next one would be a greater disappointment still. A sliding scale of ever less prepossessing children.’

‘Father … It’s funny, isn’t it? Nobody calls their father “Father” any more, but he just was a father, there was no way you could call him “Dad”.’ James had signalled to the waiter to bring another bottle of Margaux so efficiently that it hadn’t even interrupted Philip’s flow. Ordering bottles of wine was one of the few things he was really good at, he had thought wryly. ‘Father was grumpy and cruel because he hated himself for not having the courage to become a painter. He hated banking. He might have resented Charles because Charles had the courage to do what he never did. But instead he admired him and lived his own ambitions through Charles’s success.’

Philip had insisted on paying for the meal, had driven James home, and his farewell hug had been rib-threatening.

The pleasure of reminiscence faded in the face of the morning rush-hour traffic on the unlovely eastern stretch of Euston Road, with its budget hotels and run-down Irish pubs. Something was missing. Suddenly James realised what it was. He had forgotten to switch the radio on.

As luck would have it, he found himself in the middle of a discussion about soldiers in Afghanistan. A grieving mother was protesting about the paltry salary her son had earned for doing the job that had cost him his promising young life. A politician with a voice like a foggy day tried to console her with the thought that he so respected our boys and what they were doing for their country that he knew no rewards would be sufficient. Etna erupted in the Subaru. Stromboli spat fire. James’s emotional confusion fed his resentment. The fact that the other driver in Deborah’s crash had just come back from Afghanistan lit the fuse of his anger. The need to confront Marcia fuelled his emotion.

‘You illogical inhuman hypocritical mass of slowly decaying food wrapped in a boring dark suit,’ yelled James. ‘Is that an argument for not giving them more? I never heard such rot. That’s the argument Mrs Thatcher used about the nurses. Can’t pay them more or we’ll get the wrong kind of people. Well, look what’s happened. We’ve paid our bankers more, and what have we got? The wrong kind of bankers. We’ve paid our lawyers more and what have we got? The wrong kind of lawyers. We should pay our soldiers like lawyers. Three hundred pounds an hour, and get paid for every letter home. God, our world is financially obscene. And you call yourself a radio presenter, you pasty-faced nonentity. You’ve let the swine off the hook. And how do I know you’re pasty-faced? Because you’re pasty-voiced.’

He didn’t feel as much better after his rant as he had hoped he would. Every slow stop and start irritated him, and then, when he was on Western Avenue, he felt that he was rushing towards Globpack UK too fast.

Then he was in thick traffic again and an impulse grabbed him by the throat. Why not swerve over into the path of the oncoming traffic? It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced this sudden illogical death wish. It had happened before in traffic, and of course he hadn’t done it, because he might kill innocent people. But it had also happened once on their only cruise. He’d been standing by the rail at the stern of the ship and he’d suddenly wanted to climb the rail and jump overboard into the seething wake, for no reason other than because it was possible. It had so frightened him then that he had never dared look over the rail again, and this frightened him now. He had to pull in to the side to regain his equanimity, before driving the last half-mile to Marcia.

She came towards him impulsively and hugged him, without even a thought that it might be inappropriate behaviour from an inexperienced PA to the Managing Director of the London office.

‘Oh, I’m so very sorry about your wife, James,’ she said.

Usually she called him ‘Mr Hollinghurst’.

She was wearing a low top and a short skirt. Her legs were a little on the broad side, her knees were ungainly, her greatest admirer couldn’t have denied that at times she looked slightly lumpy but her ample flesh was the colour of summer and her lively young breasts were two invitations that would look well on anybody’s mantelpiece. In this weather young men should be undressing her with their eyes outside every pub in South Kensington. She should not be showing barely suppressed sexual desire for a boss with bushy eyebrows almost twenty years older than her, and especially for one who would be beginning the elaborate process of sacking her in less than half an hour, and who recognised her charms but did not desire her at all, because the only woman he desired in the whole world was one who was gloriously, triumphantly, not his type at all.

‘No. No. Thanks. Please. Thanks,’ he said as he tried to disentangle himself from her without causing offence.

At last he was free from her and he’d thought of a good excuse for delaying his confrontation with her for a few minutes.

‘I’ll send for you in a few minutes,’ he said, ‘I just need to phone my mother,’ and he disappeared into his inner sanctum.

He sat in his large swivel chair at his large desk in his large office and felt very small indeed. That was the trouble with size. It was a double-edged weapon.

He dialled his mother.

‘Hello, Mum.’

‘There was no need to ring back, you know. How are you, dear?’

‘I’m all right, Mum. How are you?’

‘Well, I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be? I mean, I’m shocked and saddened. You know how fond I always was of Deborah. I said to your father, “You’re wrong about her, you know.”’

‘He didn’t like her?’

‘Oh, sorry. I forgot you didn’t know that.’

‘What was there that he didn’t like?’

‘I don’t think it was really about her. He … no.’

‘What?’

‘I was going to say something I shouldn’t.’

‘Well, you can’t not now you’ve started.’

‘Oh. Well, for some reason … you know what he was like, I loved him dearly, but he drove me to despair the way he thought so little of people … for some reason he didn’t think you were capable of making a good choice.’

‘Of women?’

‘Of pretty well everything, actually, really, come to think of it.’

‘I see.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t have made me say it. Anyway, let’s change the subject.’

Good idea.

‘It was so sad, James, about that war hero. Poor boy. Just wanted to have a bit of fun after everything he’d been through. Poor lamb.’

‘Yes. Awful.’

‘I do hope Deborah wasn’t driving too fast. She did rather, you know.’

Don’t scream, James. Let it wash over you. And, admit it, you wondered too.

‘So, when am I going to see you?’

His brain became a diary, whipped through all the possibilities.

‘I’ll come to tea on Saturday.’

‘Good. You’d better go now. I don’t want you getting into trouble.’

‘I can’t get into trouble, Mum.’ No, don’t grit your teeth. Learn to be calm, James. It’s not too late. It’s never too late. ‘I run the place.’

‘I know you do, darling, and I’m very proud of you. Saturday, then. I think I’ll make a walnut sponge. You like walnuts.’

If you say so.

He put the phone down slowly. He gulped. He sighed. His throat was dry. He didn’t think even Alan Sugar would find it easy to sack Marcia.

He picked up the phone again, hesitated, then rang Sandra Clipstone in Human Resources.

‘Sandra, if I wanted to sack somebody, and I’m not saying I do, how do I go about it in this modern age?’

‘Ah. If you’re the maverick type and ruthless and don’t give too much of a damn about the consequences you just sack them and hope to get away with it.’

‘Right. If I’m not, and I’m not saying I am and I’m not saying I’m not, I’m not sure actually that I know whether I am or not, but if I’m not, what do I do?’

‘You give her a verbal warning.’

‘I see.’

‘Which has to be in writing.’

‘That’s a bit ridiculous.’

‘It’s a government decision.’

‘That explains it. You said “her”. How do you know it’s a woman?’

‘Nobody can believe you’ve kept Marcia on so long, James. You’re too soft-hearted to be a Managing Director, you know.’

‘I suppose that’s a compliment. Well, I’m not saying it is Marcia or it isn’t. So carry on.’

‘You have to give your reasons. And then if things still aren’t satisfactory you have to give two more written warnings, with further reasons. And then if things still aren’t satisfactory you can sack her … them.’

‘Right. Thank you, Sandra.’

‘My pleasure. Any time.’

He called Marcia in. She came so eagerly. It was dreadful.

‘Marcia …’

He could see that she was surprised by his tone of voice. So she wasn’t entirely insensitive.

‘Marcia, you know we have to make cuts. I think I told you. Fifteen per cent across the board.’

She looked at him with slowly growing horror, fear, disbelief, more horror. It was as bad as he’d feared.

‘I’m afraid … and, believe me, Marcia, this is one of the most difficult and awful things I’ve had to do in the whole of my forty-eight years.’ He threw his age in to try to distance her from him emotionally. ‘I’m going to have to consider your future here.’

All the colour drained from her face. She couldn’t go white, she was too sunburnt. She just looked … muddy. And so shocked. So bereft. She looked as if a bolt of lightning was coursing through her, pinning her to the top-of-the-range-wood-effect plastic floor.

‘I’m very, very sorry, Marcia.’

‘But …’ Slowly she regained the power of speech. ‘You’ll still need a PA. That’ll cost you. It may cost you more. Probably I’m cheap.’ For a moment she seemed more in control of herself. ‘I can’t see how this fits in with your fifteen per cent savings.’

He sighed.