The Patrick Melrose Novels: Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk (37 page)

‘Not that there’s much danger of that,’ muttered Patrick, finally getting out of bed and putting on a pair of trousers. The days when he was drawn to the sort of girl who whispered, ‘Be careful, I’m not wearing any contraception,’ as you came inside her, were almost completely over. He could remember one of them speaking warmly of abortion clinics. ‘It’s quite luxurious while you’re there. A comfortable bed, good food, and you can tell all your secrets to the other girls because you know you’re not going to meet them again. Even the operation is rather exciting. It’s only afterwards that you get really depressed.’

Patrick ground his cigarette into the ashtray and walked through to the kitchen.

And why did he have to attack Johnny’s meetings? They were simply places to confess. Why did he have to make everything so harsh and difficult? On the other hand, what was the point of going somewhere to confess if you weren’t going to say the one thing that mattered? There were things he’d never told anyone and never would.

2

NICHOLAS
PRATT
,
STILL WEARING
his pyjamas, waddled back to the bedroom of his house in Clabon Mews, squeezing the letters he had just collected from the doormat and scrutinizing the handwriting on the envelopes to see how many ‘serious’ invitations they might contain. At sixty-seven his body was as ‘well preserved’ as his memoirs were ‘long awaited’. He had met ‘everybody’, and had a ‘fund of marvellous stories’, but discretion had placed its gallant finger on his half-opened lips and he had never started the book which he was widely known to be working on. It was not unusual in what he called the ‘big world’, namely among the two or three thousand rich people who recognized his name, to hear anxious men and women ‘dreading to think’ how they had turned out in ‘Nicholas’s book’.

Collapsing on his bed, where he nowadays slept alone, he was about to test his theory that he had only received three letters that were really worth opening, when he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

‘Hello,’ he yawned.

‘Ni-ko-la?’ said a brisk woman’s voice, pronouncing the name as if it were French. ‘It’s Jacqueline d’Alantour.’

‘
Quel honneur
,’ simpered Nicholas in his appalling French accent.

‘How are you, darling? I r-ring because Jacques and I are staying at Cheet-lai for Sonny’s birthday, and I thought you might be going there too.’

‘Of course I am,’ said Nicholas sternly. ‘In fact, as the patron saint of Bridget’s social triumph, I’m meant to be there already. It was I, after all, who introduced little Miss Watson-Scott, as she was then, into the beau monde, as
it
was then, and she has not forgotten her debt to Uncle Nicholas.’

‘R-remind me,’ said Jacqueline, ‘was she one of the ladies you married?’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Nicholas, pretending to take offence. ‘Just because I’ve had six failed marriages, there’s no need to invent more.’

‘But Ni-ko-la, seriously, I r-ring in case you want to come with us in the car. We have a driver from the embassy. It will be more fun – no? – to go down together, or up together – this English “up” and “down”
c’est vraiment
too much.’

Nicholas was enough of a man of the world to know that the French ambassador’s wife was not being entirely altruistic. She was offering him a lift so as to arrive at Cheatley with an intimate friend of Bridget’s. Nicholas, for his part, would bring fresh glamour to that intimacy by arriving with the Alantours. They would enhance each other’s glory.

‘Up or down,’ said Nicholas, ‘I’d adore to come with you.’

*   *   *

Sonny Gravesend sat in the library at Cheatley dialling the familiar digits of Peter Porlock’s number on his radio telephone. The mystical equation between property and person which had so long propped up Sonny’s dim personality was worshipped nowhere more ardently than at Cheatley. Peter, George Watford’s eldest son, was Sonny’s best friend and the only person he really trusted when he wanted sound advice about farming or sex. Sonny sat back in his chair and waited for Peter to wade through the vast rooms of Richfield to the nearest telephone. He looked at the fireplace, above which hung the painting that Robin Parker was taking so long to authenticate as a Poussin. It had been a Poussin when the fourth Earl bought it and, as far as Sonny was concerned, it still was. Nevertheless, one had to get an ‘expert opinion’.

‘Sonny?’ bawled Peter.

‘Peter!’ Sonny shouted back. ‘Sorry to interrupt you again.’

‘Quite the opposite, old boy, you’ve saved me from showing round the Gay London Bikers my old housemaster sent down to gawp at the ceilings.’

‘Slaving away as usual,’ said Sonny. ‘Makes it all the more annoying when one reads the sort of rubbish they put in the papers this morning: “ten thousand acres … five hundred guests … Princess Margaret … party of the year.” Sounds as if we’re
made
of money, whereas the reality, as nobody knows better than you, with your Gay London Bikers, is that we never stop slaving to keep the rain out.’

‘Do you know what one of my tenants said to me the other day after my famous appearance on the box?’ Peter adopted his standard yokel accent. ‘“Saw you on the television, m’lord, pleading poverty, as usual.” Damned cheek!’

‘It’s quite funny, actually.’

‘Well, he’s really a splendid fellow,’ said Peter. ‘His family have been tenants of ours for three hundred years.’

‘We’ve got some like that. One lot have been with us for twenty generations.’

‘Shows an amazing lack of initiative when you think of the conditions we keep them in,’ said Peter mischievously.

Both men guffawed, and agreed that that was just the sort of thing one shouldn’t say during one’s famous television appearances.

‘What I really rang about,’ said Sonny, more seriously, ‘is this business with Cindy. Bridget, of course, wouldn’t have her, on the grounds that we didn’t know her, but I’ve spoken to David Windfall this morning and, since his wife’s ill, he’s agreed to bring Cindy along. I hope he’ll be discreet.’

‘David Windfall? You must be joking!’ said Peter.

‘Well, I know, but I made out that I was longing to meet her, rather than the truth, namely that all my Historic Houses Association and Preservation of Rural England meetings have been one long thrash in the sack with Cindy.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t tell him that,’ said Peter wisely.

‘The thing is, and I need hardly tell you to keep this under your hat, the thing is, Cindy’s pregnant.’

‘Are you sure it’s yours?’

‘Apparently there’s no doubt about it,’ said Sonny.

‘I suppose she’s blackmailing you,’ said Peter loyally.

‘No, no, no, that’s not it at all,’ said Sonny, rather put out. ‘The thing is, I haven’t had “conjugal relations” with Bridget for some time, and I’m not sure anyway, given her age, that it would be a good idea to try and have another child. But, as you know, I’m very keen to have a son, and I thought that if Cindy has a boy…’ Sonny trailed off, uncertain of Peter’s reaction.

‘Golly,’ said Peter, ‘but you’d have to marry her if he was going to inherit. It’s one of the penalties of being a peer,’ he added with a note of noble stoicism.

‘Well, I know it sounds awfully mercenary to chuck Bridget at this stage of the game,’ Sonny admitted, ‘and of course it’s bound to be misrepresented as a sexual infatuation, but one does feel some responsibility towards Cheatley.’

‘But think of the expense,’ said Peter, who had grave doubts that the divorce could be achieved in time. ‘And, besides, is Cindy the right girl for Cheaters?’

‘She’ll be a breath of fresh air,’ said Sonny breezily, ‘and, as you know, all the things are in trust.’

‘I think,’ said Peter with the measured authority of a consultant advising his patient to have surgery, ‘we’d better have lunch in Buck’s next week.’

‘Good idea,’ said Sonny. ‘See you tonight.’

‘Very much looking forward to it,’ said Peter. ‘Oh, and, by the way, happy birthday.’

*   *   *

Kitty Harrow, at home in the country, lay in bed propped up by a multitude of pillows, her King Charles spaniels hidden in the troughs of her undulating bedspread, and a ravaged breakfast tray abandoned beside her like an exhausted lover. Under a pink satin lampshade, bottles of contradictory medicines crowded the inlaid surface of her bedside table. Her hand rested on the telephone she used ceaselessly every morning between eleven o’clock and lunchtime, or, as on this occasion, until the hairdresser arrived at twelve thirty to rebuild those cliffs of grey hair against which so many upstarts had dashed themselves in vain. When she had found Robin Parker’s name in the large red leather address book that was spread open on her lap, she dialled his number and waited impatiently.

‘Hello,’ said a rather peevish voice.

‘Robin, my darling,’ warbled Kitty, ‘why aren’t you here already? Bridget has unloaded some perfectly ghastly people on me, and you, my only ally, are still in London.’

‘I had to go to a drinks party last night,’ simpered Robin.

‘A party in London on a Friday night!’ protested Kitty. ‘It’s the most antisocial thing I’ve ever heard. I do think people are inconsiderate, not to say cruel. I practically never go to London these days,’ she added with a real note of pathos, ‘and so I rely terribly on my weekends.’

‘Well, I’m coming to the rescue,’ said Robin. ‘I ought to be leaving for Paddington in five minutes.’

‘Thank God,’ she continued, ‘you’ll be here to protect me. I had an obscene telephone call last night.’

‘Not again,’ sighed Robin.

‘He made the most perfectly revolting suggestions,’ confided Kitty. ‘And so before putting the phone down I said to him, “Young man, I should have to see your face before I allowed you to do any of those things!” He seemed to think I was encouraging him, and rang back the very next minute. I insist on answering the phone myself in the evenings: it’s not fair on the servants.’

‘It’s not fair on you either,’ Robin warned her.

‘I’ve been haunted,’ growled Kitty, ‘by what you told me about those cocks the prudish Popes snapped off the classical statues and stored in the Vatican cellars. I’m not sure
that
wasn’t an obscene phone call.’

‘That was history of art,’ giggled Robin.

‘You know how fascinated I am by people’s families,’ said Kitty. ‘Well, now, whenever I think about them, and the dark secrets they all have lurking under the surface, I can’t help picturing those crates hidden in the Vatican cellars. You’ve corrupted my imagination,’ she declared. ‘Did you know what a dreadful effect you have on people?’

‘My conversation will be completely chaste this evening,’ threatened Robin. ‘But I really ought to be going to the station now.’

‘Goodbye,’ cooed Kitty, but her need to talk was so imperious that she added conspiratorially, ‘Do you know what George Watford told me last night? – he at least was a familiar face. He said that three-quarters of the people in his address book are dead. I told him not to be so morbid. Anyway, what could be more natural at his age: he’s well into his eighties.’

‘My dear, I’m going to miss my train,’ said Robin.

‘I used to suffer terribly from train fever,’ said Kitty considerately, ‘until my wonderful doctor gave me a magic pill, and now I just float on board.’

‘Well, I’m going to have to sprint on board,’ squealed Robin.

‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Kitty, ‘I won’t delay you a moment longer. Hurry, hurry, hurry.’

*   *   *

Laura Broghlie felt her existence threatened by solitude. Her mind became ‘literally blank’, as she had told Patrick Melrose during their week-long affair. Five minutes alone, or off the telephone, unless it was spent in the company of a mirror and a great deal of make-up, was more literal blankness than she could stand.

It had taken her ages to get over Patrick’s defection. It was not that she had liked him particularly – it never occurred to her to like people while she was using them, and when she had finished using them, it would clearly have been absurd to start liking them – but it was such a
bore
getting a new lover. Being married put some people off, until she made it clear that it was no impediment from her point of view. Laura was married to Angus Broghlie, who was entitled by ancient Scottish custom to call himself ‘The Broghlie’. Laura, by the same token, could call herself ‘Madame Broghlie’, a right she seldom exercised.

Eventually, after a whole fortnight without a lover, she had managed to seduce Johnny Hall, Patrick’s best friend. Johnny wasn’t as good as Patrick because he worked during the day. Still, as a journalist he could often ‘work on a story at home’, which was when, they could spend the whole day in bed.

Some subtle questioning had established that Johnny didn’t yet know about her affair with Patrick, and she had sworn Johnny to secrecy about their own affair. She didn’t know whether to be insulted by Patrick’s silence or not, but she intended to let Patrick know about Johnny whenever it would cause maximum confusion. She knew that Patrick still found her sexy, even if he had reservations about her personality. Even she had reservations about her personality.

When the phone rang, Laura raised her head and wriggled across the bed.

‘Don’t answer it,’ moaned Johnny, but he knew he was in a weak position, having left the room earlier to talk to Patrick. He lit a cigarette.

Laura turned to him and stuck her tongue out, hooking her hair behind her ear as she picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said, suddenly serious.

‘Hi.’

‘China! God, your party was
so
great,’ gasped Laura, pinching her nose with her thumb and index finger and raising her eyes to the ceiling. She had already analysed with Johnny what a failure it had been.

‘Did you really think it was a success?’ China asked sceptically.

‘Of course it was, darling, everybody loved it,’ said Laura, grinning at Johnny.

‘But everybody got stuck in the downstairs room,’ China whined. ‘I really hated it.’